Beyond the Call of Duty
by Tianis
Summary: {COMPLETE} Why does Lancelot seem so cold and practical? A little insight to his history, and the person that changed his life.
1. Prologue

**This is my first King Arthur fic, and I may get a couple of things wrong, but I was inspired to write this to explain the history of Lancelot's attitude in the film.**

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A wise man once told me to live my life in honour of those who have passed. And, on this day, the day of my anointing, I remember those who have given me strength and passion and the power of free will. As I look at those who still remain, I see one face missing that saddens my heart. His life, and his spirit, was absorbed so completely by myself that we shall never truly be apart, and he shall never be forgotten in all the legends throughout time. But it is one story that will never be told that fills my heart the most. And this is to remember the people in this story and their deeds that went beyond the call of duty. 


	2. One: The Woad Woman

"The legion came upon the village when tracking more woads east, parallel to the wall." The soldier said pompously, watching the ongoing battle fade in the valley below. He glanced up to the tall, dark-haired man on his grey horse. "They've been putting up quite a resistance."

"So I can see." The man replied shortly, nodding to his mounted companions. "We'll go down and have a look. Perhaps you brutes haven't killed someone so that we may talk to them." The last sentence was said venomously, and made the soldier blanch as the eight riders made their way into the village. They wound their way through abandoned huts – straw-covered buildings of mud and stone. Bodies were strewn in halted mayhem on the churned muddy pathways, with a few abandoned weapons glinting red in the sun. The man curled his lip in disgust, glancing to his companions to see his loathing reflected. Most of the bodies were unarmed women and children. Fires crackled – some forsaken by the villagers, some set into the straw roofs of the huts by the legion.

A scream of rage met them as the rounded a hut and came across the most surreal sight they had encountered. Four Romans, their armour splattered with blood, surrounded a woman in a semi-circle, a hut cutting off her escape behind her. She stood in a fighting stance, sword clasped between two grimed hands, her blue dress torn and dirty, and her dark red hair plastered with mud and blood. At her feet were two dead Romans, and there were more nearby. What was so strange was that she didn't seem to be looking for an escape, but rather she seemed doggedly determined to remain where she was, for as any of the men tried to approach, she swiped viciously at them with her sword. Hanging back, the riders watched as a Roman darted forwards, lunging at her. She parried and forced the sword backwards until it was suspended above his shoulder. With a lightening quick movement, the Roman flashed a dagger from his belt and sliced at her forearm. She yelled in pain as scarlet rivulets welled up through the cut and poured down her wrist. She dropped the sword, falling to her knees to clutch the cut with her good hand to stem the bleeding, her fighting arm was ruined. The Roman who had attacked nodded to one of his friends, and the man started forward to go into the hut. She growled, and snatched her sword from the ground with her still capable hand and drove it upwards into the Roman's chest. The force drove through his thin armour and pierced his heart, but shattered the blade at the hilt. The Roman who had produced the dagger darted in again and dug his sword into her flesh below her ribs. She cried out, tears springing to her eyes and rolling down her dirty cheeks. As the Roman drew back to deal the final blow, the man dismounted and approached. He saw the defiance in the woman's eyes as she stared at her death without fear, and his gut twisted.

"Stop!" He announced, halting the scene suddenly. The Romans turned to him.

"Artorius." The Roman said in surprise. "I had no idea you were coming."

"Indeed." Arthur replied coldly. "What has this woman done?"

"She won't let us in the hut, we think she's hiding something."

"Or someone." Another Roman solider interjected. Arthur silenced him with a glance. He turned and headed for the hut, but the woman, still bleeding profusely dived forward from her knees to stop him, roaring with pain and anger. Two Romans grabbed her and pulled her roughly back, tearing another cry of agony from her throat. Arthur ducked his head to enter the gloomy hut, and stared around as his eyes adjusted to the sudden dark. One of his companions followed – a man with dark, curly hair and a beard.

"What would she hide in here?" He asked in surprise. There was a straw pallet, baskets of food and a bucket of water. Clothes were hung near a fire to dry, and steam rose in swirling patterns from them.

"I don't know, Lancelot." He paused, his eyes resting on a basket near the pallet. The bundle of cloths that were lying in it moved. "There." He said, approaching it and kneeling beside it. Lancelot looked over his shoulder and the round, pale face of a sleeping child.

Arthur stepped back outside, cradling the baby to his chest carefully.

"This is your secret prize." He said bitterly to the Romans. "A baby." The words elicited a moan of anguish from the woman, whose captors were holding her so tightly the blood had drained from her wrists, but it still seeped from her wounds. Lancelot, looking at her closer, saw the bloody, swollen lip and caked blood at the collar of her dress at her neckline. She struggled vehemently against her restraints, which only got her a kick in the stomach with a metal-capped boot, driving the breath from her lungs in a rush of air. The Roman, who seemed to be the leader, stepped forward and sent her a blow around the jaw that flew her backwards and knocked her unconscious. Arthur shook with rage as the Roman shouted at the still body:

"Stupid woad! How dare you challenge us for a child!" Lancelot took the baby that was handed to him as Arthur drew Excalibur and hewed the Roman's head from its body. There was a shocked silence. He had committed treason for a woad girl and her child.

"Anybody else dare to defy me?" He pointed his sword at each Roman, who all shook their heads violently. "Get a cart. Dag, look after the girl and the baby." He instructed another of his companions. Dagonet, a tall, bullish man with a shaven head and few words, dismounted and picked up the girl as if she were as light as an apple. In truth, she probably weighed little more, her body so starved.


	3. Two: Bryanne

The woman thought she was dead. The blurred images when she opened her eyes made no sense, and her hearing must be gone too, because she could hear cart wheels turning, and the low, deep voices of men. She groaned, begging her head to stop throbbing. The voices stopped. At least that helped a little, but them she felt movement nearby and the voices got closer. Frowning, she tried to will her body away from the disturbance, but found she couldn't move. He eyes opened again. There was a face above hers, and a hand with a white thing. The hand descended, and she felt panic as she realised the white thing was a cloth. If she wasn't dead, they were certainly going to suffocate her. A cool, damp cloth laid itself on her forehead, and she felt stupid at her fear. She hadn't been afraid before, she hadn't felt even the tiniest hint, except fear for…

"Genna!" She cried, her voice cracking. Her throat was too dry. The voices hurried themselves over their words.

"Who's Genna?"

"Maybe the baby."

"Must be."

"Tell Arthur that she's waking up and she asks for the child." Instructed the deeper of the two. His voice spoke of violence, and yet was gentle. Healing.

"Genna." The woman tried again, swallowing hard. She opened her eyes once more to see a ceramic cup near her lips, and she felt a strong hand support the back of her head.

"Come on. Drink. Easy now." Coerced the voice, and she managed to sip a little of the water offered before she felt sick and had to stop before she vomited. "Good. Now, rest. Try not to move too much." The woman was coming more and more to her senses, and the water made her feel more awake. She could feel tight binding around her left wrist and her ribs, and there was a dull ache underneath the bandages.

"Who… who are…" She was hastily hushed.

"My name's Dagonet." Came the reply. "Try to sleep a little, it will help."

"I am… Bryanne." She replied, before obeying his commands and falling back asleep.

Arthur climbed into the wagon they had found and looked down at the woman. Dagonet was kneeling beside her, holding a cup of water. She lay on a pallet, in a green dress they had managed to find as her blue dress had been too far ruined. They had dressed her wounds and watched her as she slipped in and out of a fever. The baby, a girl, had slept a lot of the journey back, and when she was awake liked to spend most of her time with Dagonet, or Lancelot who was inexplicably drawn to her.

"How is she?" He asked. Lancelot was close behind, and edged past him to sit with the baby, who was chewing some bread in toothless gums.

"She woke for a little. Asked for the baby and told me her name."

"Her name?"

"Bryanne." Arthur smiled. Bryanne meant _strong one_. "I think the child's called Genna. At least, that's what she shouted." Arthur nodded.

"Then her fever's breaking?"

"Yes. She gets better every hour."

"Good. We'll be at the wall in half a day. I sent Tristan ahead to warn them that we have casualties." Arthur left, and Dagonet and Lancelot looked at each other.

"He's in a lot of danger, doing this. Killing a Roman and bringing back woads? Madness." Lancelot shook his head, and looked down at Genna who gurgled in delight, reaching up with chubby hands towards him. Smiling, he picked her up and brought her close, watching the pink fingers close around the metal of his breastplate, and the wide brown eyes hazily look at the hilt of one of his swords sheathed across his back.

"Stay away from her." Came a hoarse voice. Dagonet and Lancelot jumped in surprise. "Stay away from her, filthy Roman." Genna giggled and peeped in joy at the sound of Bryanne's voice. Bryanne had struggled up and was propping herself weakly on one elbow as her eyes bore straight into Lancelot's skull, filled with hatred.

"We're not Romans." Dagonet replied, trying to push she back down, but with unusual strength for someone so feverish, she pushed his hand away defiantly.

"I don't care. Just don't touch her." She struggled further up into a sitting position and reached for Genna. Lancelot gave her up without a fight. The baby wound her hands into Bryanne's hair and chuckled to herself, completely unafflicted by the tension in the wagon.

"I'm sorry." Lancelot replied. His eyes met hers, unabashed. The green dress was far too big for her, and it had slipped off one shoulder, revealing pale skin taut across bones. Her eyes were tourmaline green – deep and intense and passionate, and they met his impregnable brown eyes without fear. "My name's Lancelot." He added, deciding that it would be better to be friends than enemies. She looked away, looking down at Genna.

"If you're not a Roman, then what are you?" She asked, ignoring his introduction.

"Sarmatian." Dagonet answered. Genna plucked at the bandages on Bryanne's wrist and a red flower of blood appeared. "It would be better if she didn't do that." He reprimanded. Bryanne glared at him. He shrugged, and stood and left the wagon. Lancelot paused.

"Is she yours?" He asked.

"No. My sisters." Bryanne stared at him again, and he felt all the protective layers he had put around himself stripped away. "She and her husband were killed by Romans." That was all the answer he would have, and so he too rose and left Bryanne and Genna in the wagon alone.


	4. Three: Hadrian's Wall

Hadrian's Wall spread East to West as far as the eye could see, great blocks of grey stone that held out the woads from the North and held in the Romans from the South. Bryanne's wagon was taken into the courtyard of the Sarmatian's quarters and left there as officials bristled at the sight of the woad girl.

"You cannot keep her here!" The official announced pompously.

"And who is to stop us?" Arthur asked, helping Dagonet lift Bryanne down from the wagon. She blinked in the bright sunlight, stretching her eyes upwards to see the sky above the walls. "She is a casualty, we have every right to keep her."

"She is a _woad_. A barbarian." He spluttered. Bryanne fixed him with a glare that would freeze the sun.

"Coming from a Roman." She spat furiously, and then cackled a laugh full of venom. The official blustered some more before Arthur dismissed him with a cutting remark and a wave of his sword.

"Put her in the spare room between Lancelot and myself." He instructed Dagonet. He nodded, and went to show Bryanne the way when she stopped and cried out in utter surprise.

"Desra! That's my horse!" A chestnut mare whinnied at the sound of her name and strained against the lead rope. The horse had been found in a paddock beside the village, and Arthur had immediately loved the strong legs, barrel chest and flowing limbs.

"She's yours?" He asked incredulously.

"Yes. I've had her since I was a child and she was a foal." Bryanne replied, darting over to the horse and throwing her arms around the red-gold neck. She turned to Arthur. "What were you planning to do with her?"

"Actually, I wanted to keep her." He said, still somewhat surprised that the spirited horse that had battled every Roman on the way back was a gentle as a dove under the seemingly calming hand of Bryanne.

"Well, since the owner is not dead, I don't think that will be happening." She answered him abruptly, mistrust gleaming in her eyes. Her sharp chin jutted out as she set her jaw.

"No one talks to Arthur like that." Hissed one of the men. He was still mounted on his horse, a hawk resting on one arm. His dark hair was braided in places and long over his eyes, and on each high-placed cheekbone he bore two black lines, and wore his beard long over his chin. His voice was quiet and calculating, speaking of wisdom and mystery and inner strength

"Easy, Tristan." Another answered, holding his horse by the reins. He also had dark hair, though short and curly, and a beard that jutted thickly from his chin and jaw line. This voice, in contrast to Tristan's, was calming and smooth – a voice like to that of a priests, or a man of peace. Bryanne recognised it as deceiving, noting the sword hanging at his side. "She would never understand respect."

"Oh no?" She curled her lip at him. "Or perhaps it's because I don't respect this murderer so blindly as yourself!"

"Galahad! Bryanne!" Arthur snapped. "Enough." He walked away, and Galahad fixed Bryanne was a fierce look that she returned equally.

Lancelot watched through the open door as she moved about the room, noting the cot beneath the arrow-slit window, and the oak table along one wall. Curtains hung from various corners of the room – some covering the doorway, but temporarily pulled back, and more hiding a tin bath that Bryanne discovered with great joy. There was a small hearth, providing a fire for heat as opposed to light, and a stool tucked underneath the table. Brackets on the wall carried yellow wax candles, and yet more stood in iron candlesticks on the table. Genna's basket had been put on a stand so that she lay at waist height. Bryanne approached her and looked fondly down at the face of her niece. Lancelot wondered if he had any nieces in Sarmatia. Swallowing back the homesickness that jabbed between his ribs, he rapped his knuckles on the doorpost and entered when Bryanne whirled round. She had already washed herself properly – they had only cleaned the dirt away from her wounds on the journey, and rebound her bandages, and had even managed to find a clean dress that fitted her. This was green, as the last one, but dark enough to match her eyes, which now looked at him so intently it made him want to squirm. Her hair was in a long braid down her back, but a few rebel strands fell about her face. It fell to her elbows in a wave of russet brown, laced with threads of chestnut and gold. Her skin was pale, and she had freckles across her nose, cheeks and shoulders. Her face was narrow, with a sharp, expressive chin, high cheekbones and a thin nose, with wide, full lips and a long, elegant neck. Around her right upper arm she wore a band of gold. Her whole body stood defensively, but it was shapely and strong, with narrow shoulders and only slightly wider hips and long, lithe legs that moved with such grace she looked almost feline. She raised a single eyebrow at his blatant appraisal.

"What is it you see, Sarmatian?" She asked, her voice soft but cut defensively. It gave him shivers to hear it. "A barbarian woad? An injured, shamed woman, starved, desperate?"

"No." He answered with a shrug, and moving his eyes to alight on the splash of yellow sunlight that fell in a long line across the brushed-clean floor. "I see a proud, strong woman." He allowed his eyes to dart back. "Whose defences would be better used elsewhere. I am not your enemy, Bryanne." She snorted, and turned back to Genna, who had woken and begun to murmur.

"I doubt that. You fight for the Romans, yes?"

"Yes, but –"

"Then that's all I need to know."

"No, it's not. I do not serve these Romans, they are as much my enemy as yours. I hate them with every waking breath, and more so in my dreams." He folded his arms across his chest, and she turned back to him, taking her time to study him closely.

He was tall and broad, built like a warrior, naturally. But his stance was smooth, and she guessed he could move with skill and grace. His broad, square hands were callused and bore the tales of many battles. His beard was cut more neatly than the others, a thin trail around his lips and across his chin and jaw. He had a strong jaw, square, like most of the shape of his body, that was set with stubbornness. He had a long, straight nose that some would label a 'Roman nose', but she would never say so – it was unique to him. His mouth was set in an expressionless line, but she had seen him smile and already knew the dimples set in his cheeks when he laughed, and tracings of lines at the curl of his lips. His eyes were deep, deep brown. Not chocolate, not coffee, something more intense than that, as deep as the roots of an ancient tree and as dark as a night shrouded in clouds. His hair was black and curled around his ears and high forehead. He wore his armour still, thought more decorative than useful, with a gold-inlaid breastplate and chain mail underneath with rolling shoulder-guards, his arms protected with more metal guards inlaid with gold, and pleats of tough leather covering a dark tunic and breeches to his knees, and his shins covered by boots underneath yet more metal-and-gold guards. Across his back were sheathed two blades, their hilts showing over his shoulders for easy reach.

She sighed, folding her arms in imitation of him.

"What is it you want with me, then? I am perfectly well-healed to go home." Lancelot hesitated. The ashen smell of fire still assailed his nostrils, because he had not yet washed him from his clothes and hair and skin.

"You don't have a home to go to." He said unsteadily, watching her reaction play itself out across her face. Confusion, disbelief, anguish, and then, finally, anger. She clenched her fists by her sides and shook with rage, her jaw tightly set.

"What have you done to my home?"

"The village was burned down when we left…" She tore past him, her feet flying over the stone paving. She knew where to go, Arthur was meeting more Roman officials in the hall, along with his knights. Lancelot had been making his way there when he had paused at her door. She burst through the doors into the room. It was bare save a pool of water in the middle of a circular table. Brackets spluttered with oily smoke from the gust of wind and she threw herself at Arthur, who was standing behind his stool, ready to sit. His green eyes registered surprise before her fist clouted his chin with such force it jerked his head backwards.

"Don't you dare touch him!" Roared a voice. Deeper than Dagonet, and stronger in its timbre, it came from nearby, and she felt two strong arms grab her by her waist and pin her against a very solid, very strong body. Massaging his jaw, Arthur looked at Bryanne, and then the man holding her.

"Let her go, Bors." He said quietly.

"But –"

"I _said_ let her _go_." She was reluctantly released as one of the Romans started to protest.

"What is the meaning of this? It this the woad girl you killed Partius for?"

"You burnt down my home!" Bryanne screamed. Lancelot appeared behind her, looking slightly bemused at the sight of such a slight, slender and weakened woman standing defiantly at Arthur, who towered a head and shoulders above her.

"No, I didn't. The Roman legion did." He answered calmly, looking down at the woman he had rescued, and had yet repaid him by punching him with a very hard fist. He was surprised at her strength. She dived for him again, screaming profanities, but Bors locked his arms about her again as she stormed.

"You should have stopped them! You should have let me die there – better than to find I have no home and no family and no future but in the hands of these disgusting creatures." She spat at the feet of the Romans, and one raised his hand to slap her. Arthur held him back with a raised hand of his own. The Roman took a step backwards.

"Why are you protecting this girl?" He asked curiously, with a lacing of fury. Arthur had no answer to it, except that he had seen the desperation in her eyes as she had fought the four soldiers, the lack of fear in her eyes as she had awaited her fate and the passion and anguish when she had seen Genna his arms. The maternal protection she bore for someone else's child both baffled and fascinated him, and he felt he had to know more.

"Bors. I told you to let her go." He said, watching Bryanne as she shook herself free from the man's grasp and sneered at them.

"You disgust me." She hissed, and stormed from the room with such tremendous energy that it almost left them in breathless awe. Lancelot ached to follow her, but knew military matters were far more important.


	5. Four: Still My Enemy

Bryanne brushed viciously at Desra's coat, making it gleam in the sun that filtered down into the courtyard. She hated them, she hated every single one of them… Desra snickered anxiously, concerned at the anger broiling inside the woman. Bryanne sighed, resting her forehead on the chestnut flank and closing her eyes. She inhaled deeply the scent of horse and hay and chaffe. She could smell dung and mud and smoke… they had burned her village to the ground. For what purpose? They had killed everyone. All except herself, and Genna. Why had she been spared? Arthur confused her completely. He was strong and wise – a royal warrior and great leader. His voice carried authority and understanding, justice.

"Woad!" Called a voice. Bryanne set her teeth and turned. It was the Roman from the hall. "Come here." He instructed with a pointing finger. Tightening her grip around the brush, she wished fiercely it was a sword.

"I'm afraid there are no _woads_ around here. Only a Briton." She said as calmly as she could muster. He snorted, dismissing the comment.

"Come here." He repeated. She obeyed, unsure what else to do. He grabbed her chin in sharp fingers and studied her closely, through squinted eyes. He tutted. "I don't know what Arthur sees in you. Some mystery perhaps?" He inspected her closer, dragging her head forward as if to pull it from her neck. She felt sick, and snatched her face away, taking a few steps back to recover herself. Since when had she so blindly obeyed a Roman?

"Stay away from me." She snarled, throwing her brush at his feet and storming back to her room.

Genna was still awake, and Bryanne felt overcome with guilt that she had forgotten about the baby. At the sight of her, Genna began to cry – a thin, desperate wailing that spoke of terrifying hunger. Hastily, Bryanne picked her up, hushing her and jigging her softly to calm the cries. She couldn't get any food for the baby – she didn't know where the kitchens were.

"Is she all right?" Asked a familiar voice, and Bryanne's head snapped up, instantly defensive. Lancelot stood in the doorway once more.

"She's hungry." She answered. "But I don't have any milk."

"Wait a moment." He said, disappearing. As she waited, she wondered where he had gone. He soon returned with a jug of milk. "It's still warm." He said, tentatively offering it to her. "But I didn't know what to put it in." Bryanne took it, gratefully, though reluctant to display it.

"Thank you. It will do fine." She poured some of the milk into an empty ceramic bowl on the table, and then proceeded to dip her little finger into it. She held the finger to Genna's lips until the baby tasted the milk and began to suck on the finger, her hands clasped around Bryanne's knuckles. Lancelot watched in fascination.

"I never thought…"

"No. You probably didn't." She answered scathingly. He frowned.

"I brought you some food too, you look starved." He placed a plate down. There was bread and cheese and an apple.

"I'm sure that's some kind of compliment."

"Not really. Just an observation." At least he had retained some cockiness, he noticed. He seemed to be floundering whenever they spoke, and he was sure he'd somehow lost his footing again in this situation. He watched as Bryanne dipped her finger into the milk again. "I… I could do that if you want to eat." He offered without conviction. He cared about Genna, of course, but he was unsure about Bryanne's reaction to someone else holding her – the last encounter hadn't been too successful. Bryanne eyed him suspiciously, and then glanced to the food. Her stomach rumbled traitorously.

Genna was warm against his chest. She had made him remove his armour before holding her. He stood in just a tunic and breeches, and felt very unprotected. It confused him, as he stared into the innocent, harmless face of a child, that he felt more fear than he did facing woads.

"Dip your finger in the milk." Bryanne instructed, watching him closely. "And hold it to her lips until she tastes it." The soft, warm mouth closed around his little finger eagerly, and the sensation surprised and delighted him. "She'll let go when she wants more." Bryanne added, already picking up the bread and sitting on the cot, watching Lancelot like a hawk. He gently sat on the stool beside the table, his face open with wonder. Bryanne hid her smile. It worried her that she recognised warm feelings towards the Sarmatian. Eating quietly, she observed him carefully feeding Genna the milk bit by bit, talking quietly to the baby.

"How did you get here?" She asked curiously. Lancelot looked up, surprised by the question.

"The Sarmatians struck a bargain with the Romans. I'm to serve here fifteen years. I came when I was twelve." He replied simply.

"How many more years do you have?"

"Two." She could see the joy and expectation in his eyes at the admission. Tilting her head, she looked at him through new eyes.

"You miss your home?"

"Yes." He paused. "Very much."

"And the other Sarmatians? They are under the same bargain?"

"Yes." He shrugged, somewhat awkwardly. "Arthur isn't Sarmatian though."

"I know. The famous half Briton, half Roman."

"Don't be so hateful. He's a good man. And my friend."

"I believe it. But he took my home from me. You must know how that feels." Lancelot nodded, knowing that the grief they shared needed no words.

"He never took your home, Bryanne." He took a deep breath. "The Romans did, and whatever Arthur's beliefs, he is not one of them."

"Beliefs." Bryanne snorted. "I believe in a God that has abandoned us. Beliefs, in most, are worthless."

"Why?" Lancelot was shocked at this retort. His hardened shell protected him from things such as Christianity. The Britons had it forced upon them, but he had refused, preferring himself a 'pagan'. And yet, here was a woad, with a Christian God, who still believed when she had been left alone and defenceless, trapped by enemies.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you believe in a God?"

"Do you have no beliefs, Lancelot?"

"Not many." He replied proudly. "I believe in my home, and my family, and my life. But I do not believe in a God."

"Then you could not understand the comfort it provides when you are all alone in the cold and darkness. When the spirits of those passed haunt your dreams, and the presence of those you hate press against you with violence and starvation. It is a bitter corner to fight, but I fight it because I believe that God will come. One day. Just not today." Lancelot had no answer to that. She spoke of such crippling desolation so openly – so trustingly from someone so defensive and angry. She was shrouded in bitterness, and she had revealed to him deep-set pains like he was a brother. He stared down at Genna, finally beginning to understand Bryanne.

"You said your sister was killed by Romans." He watched her as her lips tightened. It was not a comfortable subject.

"Yes." She replied, staring at Genna as if the baby could interject with some sentence to break them away from talking about it.

"How?" There was silence. He wondered if anyone had ever asked her before. Probably not – she was lonely.

Bryanne took Genna from him and settled the baby across her shoulder, rubbing her back gently. How did she tell a stranger of the destruction of her family? The sudden-wrought desolation that had torn her from comfort.

"We were hiding out in the woods. At the time, Fynn was fighting for Merlin. My sister, Fenella, had just given birth to Genna. We were attacked when we were hunting for food. The women mostly went hunting – the men were too busy raiding the Romans." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I don't know how they found us, but some of us had weapons. I was the youngest in my family, and Fenella told me to hide with Genna until she came for us. My mother was one of the first to get killed – she was unarmed, killed where she ran." Biting her lip, Bryanne tried to regain some composure to the shake in her voice. "Fenella had a sword, I could see her from where I was hiding – she killed two Romans before another took her head from her body. By then, the alarm had reached the men. Fynn saw her body and… it… he… the anger killed him." She had to force the tears away. "Pa tried to help, but he was too old – he had a bad leg that made him limp. When he was killed, I ran… I didn't know what else to do, my family were all dead. I was on my own."

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere." She laughed dryly. "Of course, the Romans found me. I had time to hide Genna, but… well, I have scars to show where their swords left me for dead." She looked down at the child. "Genna was the one who kept me alive. When I heard her crying, I forced myself to keep breathing. For her sake, if not for my own."

"Why didn't you fight them?"

"With bare fists? Besides, I hadn't the faintest idea where to start."

"You knew how to kill them in the village. And you hit Arthur quite hard." He quirked a smile at her abashed face.

"After the attack, I taught myself how to defend Genna. I practiced so hard with sword, bow, dagger… I even learnt how to use a garrotte. Anything that would help me protect her."

Lancelot couldn't fathom her. After feeling as if he could just start to understand her and decipher her, she surprised and baffled him again. He felt he was going in circles. She seemed to have no care for herself, but the protective layers she held firmly in place told a different story. Her grief and hurt was carefully hidden away – even from herself, he guessed from the fierce battle against the tears shining in her eyes. She stood and placed Genna carefully in her basket, running a finger over one cheek as she looked down at the tiny baby that had given her life, but had also, in some profound way, taken it from her. He stood and approached her so that was only one step between them.

"I'm sorry." He said helplessly. She shrugged, as if it brushed away her burden. "I couldn't imagine the kind of life you've had."

"No." She replied, somewhat resentfully. "For, after all, you are one of those people who have taken it from me."

"I never –"

"You fight for Rome."

"Yes." She turned to him, her eyes hardened.

"Then you are still my enemy."


	6. Five: The Tavern and the Vixen

Weeks past, in much the same way as they always had for the knights. Woads incursions occurred all the way up and down the wall, and Arthur often led his knights way for days on end, leaving Bryanne watching them from a corner of the courtyard. She ate only in her room, and rarely left it apart from to visit the kitchens and to see Desra. Both she and Genna benefited from the abundance of food. Lancelot saw it whenever he visited her – the only visitor she welcomed, though often Arthur would come too, but not for long and it was never more than polite conversation.

It was on one of the days when she was waiting for the knights to return when she met Lorella. Lorella, she revealed was Bors' mistress. She had nine children, and another soon to come by the bulge in her stomach. Bryanne remembered Bors – a beast of a man, large and foreboding and terribly strong. Lorella was wonderful with Genna, and soon became a regular visitor to the woad girl's room.

Bryanne was sewing a garment for Genna, using the light from the window to illuminate her work. Lorella rested the gurgling, chirping baby on her round tummy, watching as Genna played with a wooden horse Bors had once made for their children. With a great shout and clattering, the women were disturbed. Lorella smiled, her eyes lighting up.

"They've returned!" She cried, lifting Genna and rushing from the room. Bryanne followed more sedately, carefully placing her sewing on the table before making her way to the courtyard. The plumes of dust the horses had kicked up were settling, and through it, from the shadowed corner by Desra's stable, Bryanne saw the knights dismounting. Lorella handed Genna to her before crossing to Bors, who embraced her so tightly, Bryanne was sure he'd cracked some of his mistress' ribs. One of the horses seemed rider-less, burdened by a wrapped object. A body. As silence settled on the knights, Arthur looked at them each in turn.

"We won't forget him. But also, we will not mourn for him." He bowed his head in prayer, and the other knights slowly dispersed, their thoughts each their own. Lancelot noticed Bryanne and came over, his face bloodied and grim. The blood of her own people, she thought, before she asked:

"What was his name?"

"Kay." He replied quietly. Bryanne respectfully lowered her eyes. "I…" She glanced to meet his gaze. "I have to go. I'll come and see you later." With a raised hand, he disappeared. She sighed, and took one last look at the body. Another empty place at the round table in the hall.

Bryanne didn't know what made her decide to join the knights that evening in the tavern. But when Lancelot offered, as he did every night he visited, she accepted. A servant lady was instructed to look after Genna (which made Bryanne feel uncomfortable and agree to more drinks than she should have). The tavern was simply a bar and an open veranda bedecked with wooden tables and benches. Lancelot pressed his hand against her elbow to steer her and offer her silent support. He knights looked up to greet their friend, but their welcomes died on their lips at the sight of the woman, her lips set tightly as if daring them to reject her.

"Boys, this is Bryanne." He waved his hand at them. "That's Dagonet, who you already know, Bors –"

"We've met, in part." Bryanne added, and Bors smirked.

"Galahad, and Tristan."

"We've also almost met." Galahad interjected.

"And the man with the woman on his lap is Gawain." Gawain waved, but was far too distracted to say anything. Bryanne hid her smile as Lancelot showed her to her seat. "Drinks, I think. Lorella!" Bryanne's friend smiled and winked at her as she set down a jug of spiced wine and two more cups. Bryanne, still feeling anxious, finished her first mug off quickly and rapidly poured herself another. Galahad couldn't hide his surprise.

"The woman can drink!" He exclaimed.

"I can handle more than you, I'm sure." She replied, with no hint of sourness in the retort, simply good humour. The Sarmatian laughed and raised his mug before taking a huge swig.

"If you had coins, I'd bet on it." Tristan said, receiving a none-too-gentle elbow from his companion and a chatter of laughs from the others. Lancelot grinned at Bryanne, and he felt a spark of pleasure when she returned it shyly from over the tip of her cup.

The evening rapidly deteriorated into who could drink the most (Dagonet), the fastest (Bors, who made himself thoroughly sick in the process), sing the best (Lorella, though she wished to be no part of it), throw knives the best (a ridiculous notion, Tristan won without difficulty), and a war of words between who rode the best (Lancelot was quietly nominated). Arthur joined them soon after, and Bryanne subtly, yet purposefully avoided him as best she could. Her mind was fogged with too much wine, and the heat of the fires had made her feel snug and safe. She couldn't let her guard down, and so retreated into the night, not far away, just out of the light of the tavern, to lean on a fence post and watch the happenings with detached amusement. She wasn't surprised when Lancelot joined her, though was rather taken aback at the appearance of Dagonet. The two stood a good distance away, arms leant on the fence. She looked at them expectantly. It was Dagonet who spoke first, squinting his eyes as he watched Bors roar with laughter and slap someone on the back.

"Like a pack of wolves, aren't they?"

"Yes." She laughed at the simplicity of the similarity, having never thought of it before. He glanced across to her.

"You're a lot like us wolves, you know."

"No. I'm not."

"Then what are you?" Lancelot asked, trying to hide his curiosity.

"A fox." She moved as if to leave. Lancelot cackled.

"Indeed! How so?" She turned to him and announced, as if she were revealing a huge secret;

"I'm as quick and as sly and as small and as strong as they come. I know this land as if I were bred from it. My looks are deceiving… you could never trust me, but you could always rely on me." With that, she turned on her heel and re-entered the tavern. Dagonet laughed at Lancelot's surprised face.

"In all the time I've known her, I'd never thought of her like that. She is. She's a fox." Dagonet patted him on the shoulder as he passed him.

"You've only known her five weeks."

"No." Lancelot whispered in the darkness. "I've known her all my life."

He could no longer take his eyes off her. She moved smoothly, as lithely as a cat, light on her feet and swift in her movement. The firelight flickered across her skin, the animation bringing her movements to life as if they had been woven from magic. Her skin was as pale as the moon, as palpable as cream and honey. Her movements were quick and energetic and intelligent. Her hair was a silken wave of gold-spun brown, and her eyes were uncut jewels, waiting to be discovered by loving hands. His heart pounded against his ribs like a frantic bird desperate to be free of its cage. His skin felt flushed, though he knew it was not so, and his hands trembled as if they bore a life of their own. He cocked his head as a sparrow might, and wondered at himself. Five weeks he had known her… over one full moon cycle. He felt he had known her from her very first breath and would know her to her very last. In their hours together in her room she had told him of her life, and he of hers. He desperately hoped that the blood that throbbed through his veins shared the same feeling for her as she did for him, but reasoned that she would never trust a knight, let alone fall for him. He had fallen for her? How? And when? From the second he had seen her, trapped but furious, like a wounded animal. Bryanne had enraptured and enthralled him from the moment he had set eyes on her. In hopelessness, he turned to the jug of wine. Better to drown and forget, than to live and feel the torture of it being unrequited.

Bryanne decided she had better leave. Galahad was trying to cajole her into a drinking contest, and she felt woozy enough as it was.

"No, no, no!" She laughed, holding her hands up against the pleading. "I'm going to bed."

"Goodnight, Bryanne." Lorella called from serving another unruly table.

"Goodnight!" She answered, taking her leave of the knights. She began to walk away, but Arthur caught her arm.

"Perhaps, in the morning, we can talk?" He asked gently, quietly. She looked at him through calculating eyes.

"Tomorrow. In the hall." She walked away, fighting away the turbulent feelings that the commander had stirred. She shook her head to free herself of the muggy cobwebs that beleaguered her thoughts. The night was deeper than she had anticipated. Dark pockets of shadows lurked under roofs and next to walls, and the slow marching tramp of the feet of the watch up on the wall was oddly muffled by the cloaking night. The stars and moon were clear and bright, only an occasional cloud glowing blue under the nightlight. But the darkness hung heavy over Hadrian's Wall. She knew the way back to the quarters well enough, and even knew the guards who would be posted on the gates so as to let her in. But she didn't remember the alleyway that was formed between the stable walls and cottage. They weren't the knights' stables, and it wasn't a familiar cottage. Hesitating, Bryanne realised she'd taken a wrong turning. She turned to retrace her steps, but noticed a Roman centurion heading towards her down the alleyway. She bit her lip, she'd have to pass him, and she didn't fancy the idea much. Lowering her eyes, she walked towards him, his stumbling footing showing that he was drunk.

"Hey, woad!" He slurred gruffly. She carried on walking, focussed on the gap between him and the wall that meant the exit of the alley. "Don't ignore me. Woad!" he lunged for her, and she tried to sidestep him, figuring that she had more wits about herself than he did at that moment. She was wrong. Hard fingers closed around her upper arm and dragged her towards his tepid, stale breath. She turned her head away in disgust, the smell of ale almost nauseating.

"Let go." She said forcefully, trying to pull her arm away. He chuckled and pulled her closer, leaving a wet kiss on her cheek.

"Not yet, woad, not yet."

"Decimus!" Called another drunken voice, and inwardly, Bryanne's heart sank. Another Roman.

"Severino! Come, look. See what I have." He shook her arm so violently, her whole body was wracked with the tremors. She felt like some prize rag-doll.

"Ha!" Severino crowed with delight. "The woad girl." He snatched at her, but Decimus pulled her away.

"Easy, Sev. We'll both have our fun, eh?" He leered at Bryanne, and she spat in his face. Letting go to wipe away the spit, her captor roared in anger. "Little whore!" He yelled, lunging for her and knocking her to the ground with a well-aimed backhanded swipe. She tasted blood in her mouth. He picked her up by her throat and pushed her forcefully against the wall of the stables. It was cool against her hot skin, but dug in with raw chips of stone as she struggled to free herself of the vicelike grip that gradually suffocating her. She couldn't even muster enough breath to shout. Her nails dug into his arms and her legs lashed out desperately. Never had she felt so panicked.

Lancelot knew a shortcut back to the quarters, and was slowly wandering down it, musing on his misfortunes on loving a woad girl, when he heard the sure signs of a scuffle. Thinking it was some poor servant in the way of a inebriated Roman, he ignored it. Until he heard a yelp and furious shout of:

"The little witch bit me!"

"Watch it, woads have horrible diseases, you know." He frowned, and peered into the dark alleyway to his right from whence the shouts had come. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the most almighty struggle between two Romans and Bryanne. She was battling feverishly to free herself of ham-fisted hands around her neck, teeth bared. One of the Romans had blood coming from a bite-wound on his hand. Fighting down his anger, Lancelot tried to remain calm as he approached the scene.

"Now, now boys. We don't want you hurt." The one with the bite glared at him, holding his injured hand preciously.

"Stay out of this, Lancelot."

"I can't do that. This girl is my charge, and I won't have her attacked by either of you two."

"Sort him out, Sev. I'll look after the wench." Muttered the one strangling Bryanne. Severino stepped towards Lancelot, and was sent hurtling backwards with a punch to the face. "What the..?" Decimus stared at his friend, then back to Lancelot, who shrugged and smiled. "You bastard!" He stormed, letting go of Bryanne, who fell to her knees, gasping for breath and wondering how she always seemed to manage to get herself in trouble. Spots were dancing in front of her eyes, but she could hear sounds on confrontation somewhere to the right above her head. Severino unsteadily got to his feet, but soon reappeared in the mud, unconscious. Bryanne guessed he'd stay that way until someone found him in the morning. Not long after, Decimus joined him.

A pair of boots stood in front of her, and a hand reached down, offering to help her up. The knuckles were already bruising. She accepted the hand gratefully and was gently pulled to her feet. Her eyes met with Lancelot's, full of gratitude. She opened her mouth to thank him, but his balance wavered and he stumbled forwards.

"Woah, steady now." She soothed, catching him and holding his arms until he regained his stability. "Let's get you back." Supporting each other, they found their way to the quarters, and Bryanne helped Lancelot into his room. Groaning, he tried to get across to the cot without her help, but failed. "Here." She offered, holding him upright and steering him until he sat on the edge of the cot. She used the sparks from the fire to light the candles, and turned to look at him properly. Tutting, she put her hands on her hips. "You _are_ a mess. I suppose I had better clean you up."

"No… you don't have to…" He trailed off as she waved a hand at him.

"Stay there." She instructed, leaving and returning with a pail of water which she set in the hearth and stirred the fire to heat it. She knelt in front of him and removed his boots, brushing some of the mud from them before setting them to one side. Carefully, she pushed some of the curls of hair away from his face and, using a finger tucked under his chin to move his head around, inspected his appearance closely. She then looked around and soon found a cloth.

Once the water was warm, she took the pail from the fire and pulled Lancelot up. Carefully, she untied his belt and rested it on his table. His overcoat was made of hundreds of small, square patches of black leather and was buttoned down the front, with an open throat. This she removed and lay across the chair that sat in a corner. Underneath the coat was a black tunic of a thick cloth she didn't recognise. This, she pulled over his head and draped it over the overcoat. He wore only his leather trousers, and looked strangely vulnerable as Bryanne looked at him. His bare chest was a slightly paler colour to his arms, which were thickly defined with muscles. She could see the strength as each muscle flexed and relaxed under the skin – in the firm, flat abdomen and across the broad, solid chest. Pale pink scars laced his flesh – wounds from thousands of battles. A trail of dark hair ran down from his belly to his trousers, but other than that, there was no hair on his body. She blushed, quickly turning away to hide her burning cheeks.

"Bryanne, thank you."

"For what?" She asked, dipping her cloth in the warm water, squeezing it out and straightening.

"For everything." She shushed him, pressing the cloth against his forehead so that rivulets of water ran across his skin. She brushed gently, wiping away the dirt, scared to press too hard on the bruises in case she hurt him. She moved it over his temples and down his cheeks and across his chin and nose. All the time, his intense eyes never left her face. "Bryanne… Anne… you're so beautiful, you know that?" A hand reached up and pushed a strand of hair away from her face. Her breath catching in her throat, Bryanne stepped backwards. Awkwardly, she bent over and dipped her cloth in the water again. "Anne…" The soft nickname touched a place in her heart that she had locked away for many years, and it was a wicked prick of pain that joined with the pleasure at the sound of it.

"For someone who can bathe in his own room, you are remarkably filthy." She said lightly, cleaning the dirt from his shoulders and collar bone. She could be less gentle here, the bruises under his skin were long healed. Only the new purple flowers on his cheek and temple and the swelling under his lip needed careful attention.

"Anne… you really are."

"You've had far too much to drink, and you're punch-drunk to boot. You're talking no sense."

"No, Anne… listen." His voice was pleading, but she avoided his gaze, and she finished washing him in silence. She cleaned away the dirt from his chest, eliciting a gasp as she ran her cloth over each nipple in turn, and cleaned it from his stomach, feeling the strong muscles through her rag as clearly as if she were touching them with bare fingers. Bryanne cleaned his shoulder blades, feeling them move when he turned his head to see her, and down his spine and back. Then, using a clean, dry rag, she dried him.

Bryanne helped him back to his bed, noticing his eyes already drooping with weariness. She covered him up to the shoulders, and when his eyes were closed, and she was sure he was asleep, she ran her fingers through his hair – feeling the soft waves brush along her fingertips.

"Anne," he whispered, and she drew her hand back suddenly, "my little vixen… no, stay." He pleaded as she rose to leave.

"Sh." She hushed gently. "Go to sleep." It seemed that he obeyed, because his eyes shut again, and he said no more. Bryanne paused and watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest and calm in his face. She wondered when she had been so foolish so as to fall in love with a Sarmatian knight.


	7. Six: I Like

It had not come quickly, she knew. It had crept up on her steadily, stealthily. She had hated him. She had hated them all because of who they were and what they stood for. But in their quiet hours together, in their long talks about nothing and everything, something had changed. She had come to trust him, come to care for him. She had come to love him. Love the sound of his voice, and the thrill of the stories he told. She loved his voice and mouth and eyes. She loved the way he moved, and she loved how he treasured his companions fiercely and loyally and his flippant attitude. She loved the way he made her feel safe, and she loved the way he smiled at Genna when he held her.

But, first, she had hated him. Just as she had hated the man seated next to her now. Arthur. Artorius Castus, Commander of the Sarmatian Knights of the Great Wall. He had pale green eyes, flecked with hazel, and a nose that had once been broken and healed at a slight angle. His unruly mop of dark brown hair and the stubble that grazed his cheeks and the jut of his chin with the cleft in it oddly showed him as proud. His cheeks were slightly hollowed, as if the strain of his position and the divide between his two halves had stretched his skin over his bone ever so slightly. He studied her just as closely. She set her chin obstinately.

"What is it you wanted to talk about?" She asked. They were sitting in the hall, stools facing each other, goblets of wine set on the smooth surface of the round table next to them. Morning sunlight poured golden over the floor from the high windows. Arthur paused, in thought.

"I want to be your friend, Bryanne. If you'd let me."

"And why should I let you, Arthur?" It almost looked as if he had no reply to that. And then he said:

"Because I see something in you, and I know you see something in me. Maybe we can learn from each other. Despite what you might think, I am not your enemy."

"I know that." She admitted, and he looked surprised.

"Then why do you treat me as one?"

"Because I don't know how else to treat you. I heard so many things… and when I do meet you, you're nothing like the barbaric, slaughtering man I'd heard of." Arthur looked slightly taken aback at being called barbaric and slaughtering. "It scares me, I think."

"I don't want to scare you." She pouted her lower lip in thought.

"Why did you save me? A Roman said that perhaps you saw me as some mystery. Is that it? Am I to be solved?"

"No." He hesitated. "But you _are_ a mystery. You have no fear, but you are afraid. You are desperate, but you are strong and confident. You have a passion, but I cannot see it on your face." He looked at her, searching, as if it would reveal to him her secrets. Bryanne pondered his words for a moment.

"I do not fear death, but I am afraid of leaving Genna behind, and I am afraid of being alone. I am desperate because I must live, and to live I must be strong. And my passion…" She shrugged. "Genna is my passion. She gave me life when the Romans would have taken it. She gave me joy when all I could feel was grief. And she gives me understanding, when I am standing in the darkness." Bryanne shrugged again. "I can offer no more explanation than that."

"Then that will suffice." Arthur smiled, and rose. "You are still a mystery, Bryanne. But at least now, I hope we can be friends." Bryanne stood and looked at him squarely.

"I prayed to God, asking what to do about you." Arthur was surprised by a woads admission of Christianity. "Perhaps this is his answer." She reached out a hand, and he clasped it between his, feeling the frail fingers and smoothness of her skin.

"Perhaps it is." He answered, and they smiled.

"Then he has not abandoned me as I had feared."

"God never abandons anyone." Arthur answered vehemently, and Bryanne nodded in agreement.

Bryanne sat outside, in the paddock. She leant against a fence post, with Desra grazing close by. She was sewing Genna's garment again, and the baby lay next to her, playing with the wooden horse again. Someone approached from behind, and from the footfall, Bryanne recognised Lancelot's boots. He rested his arms on the fence above her, staring intently at Desra. Bryanne's fingers never hesitated in her sewing, nor did she look up. But her heart beat a thousand times faster, louder than a thousand galloping horses, and her hands shook with the strain of control.

"It's a beautiful morning." He said eventually, glancing down at the top of her head. She was frowning at her stitches, teeth pulling at her lip in concentration. Genna gurgled at him, but Lancelot ignored her.

"It is." She answered.

"I want to thank you for last night." He said. She didn't reply. "I wasn't myself…"

"I know." There was no emotion in the words, and it stung him. Deciding to give up, he turned to leave.

"It doesn't mean what I said wasn't true." He added, throwing the words over his shoulder as a non-committal comment. Bryanne stopped her sewing, hands frozen in a parody of action. She looked round.

"Lancelot."

"Mm?"

"I liked you calling me Anne." She said, her eyes showing her shyness. She had never been so openly flirtatious as this. "I'd like it if you always called me that." She shrugged, turning back around.

"Always." His voice was above her, and she looked up in surprise, jabbing her finger on the needle as she poked it through the cloth.

"Ouch." She yelped, sucking her finger.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" He vaulted over the fence and knelt by her. Carefully he took her hand from her mouth and inspected the wound. Bryanne laughed.

"It's only a prick." He looked up, mirth in his eyes.

"No. It's a mortal wound that must be attended to." Suddenly, causing himself as much astonishment to himself as to her, he held her finger to his lips and put it in his mouth. Bryanne's eyes widened, and he gently kissed her fingertip before releasing her hand, which dropped to her lap – a limb momentarily forgotten. "Better?" He murmured.

"Much." She replied, her voice no louder than a sigh, her lungs forgetting how to breathe. He quirked his lopsided smile and sat back on his heels. There were no more words said, and after a little while of simply looking at each other, Bryanne tidied away her work, picked up Genna and allowed Lancelot to help her over the fence. They walked side by side back to the quarters, in silence.

They were about to enter the courtyard when Tristan galloped past, a plume of dust rising after him. Above their heads, his hawk flew, calling into the still air. They stopped, watching the bird soar up and away.

"Lancelot!" Arthur shouted, running to the stables. Lancelot began to run, skidded to a halt and looked back.

"Go." Bryanne instructed, waving her hand, a droplet of blood falling into the dust. He smiled and disappeared into the stables. Bryanne didn't watch them leave. Instead, she took Genna to the kitchens to be fed, and listened to the shouts and pounding hooves through the window. Her chest felt tight, and she shut her eyes, fighting away the sensation of being trapped.

It had not come quickly, she knew. She had hated him. She wondered if she wished she still did as the hooves faded. She loved the way he laughed, the way he moved, the way he smelled. She loved the feel of his skin when they touched, and the confidence that oozed from him. She loved the way he said her name, sometimes half-whispered, softly as if it were a precious gift, and sometimes brazenly, as if he were proud of it. She loved the way he joked with the others, and the cockiness in his gait. She loved the way he whispered to Genna and to his horse, as if they were being told special secrets no one else could know. She loved the way his eyes looked at hers.

"Oh God." She whispered, her fingers tight against the table. She loved the way she loved him.


	8. Seven: Leaving, Staying and Arrivals

**Okay, hope you're all enjoying it!**

**This bit, as a warning, gets a little steamier, but not much.**

**And also, BIG disclaimer! Don't own any of this apart from my own characters. I nicked a few words from the script, but I don't own those. They belong to the big clever people that wrote the film. Right, so DON'T OWN IT!**

**Enjoy.**

**_P.S. The triple dots and bold words show a seperation; I couldn't figure out how to put stupid asterisks in! (If anyone knows how to put them in and make them STAY, please let me know)_**

* * *

It was three days until the knights returned. They were dirty and wearied and disheartened. Bryanne heard them return from where she was grooming Desra in the stable. She didn't go to watch, but she listened for his voice, willing him to be there. When she heard his smooth timbre, she breathed a sigh of relief into Desra's mane, closing her eyes in thanks. Her horse snickered, and leaned her head over the stall door, watching for the knights and their horses. 

"Jols. Take the horses, rub them down, they're hot." Arthur instructed. Jols was the squire-cum-soldier friend, with sandy brown hair and a pockmarked face from the pox. Years had taken its toll on his body, and his stomach stretched at his tunic, but he was still fit and fast, though he preferred caring for the horses as opposed to fighting.

"Jols." Bryanne's heart leapt at the sound of Lancelot's voice. "Solmyr was favouring his left foreleg, I'm worried he may have gone lame. I checked, but I can't see anything." Solmyr, Lancelot's black stallion, snorted at the sound of his name. He was a huge beast – at least sixteen hands, if not seventeen, with broad, flat muscles and huge hooves that made the ground shake.

"After I've rubbed him down, I'll walk him and take a look myself." Jols offered. "Though he looks in fine shape to me." From her angle in the stable, Bryanne saw Jols rub Solmyr's muzzle affectionately. Lancelot laughed.

"He always does. Thank you, Jols." Lancelot briefly appeared in her eye line, to pat Solmyr's neck, before leaving the stables. He didn't know she was there. And for that, in some ways, she was glad. She finished grooming Desra, tidied away the brushes, and headed back into the living quarters. It was a warm day, and strands of her hair stuck to her temples. She impatiently brushed them away with back of her hand, only serving to wipe a smudge of dust across her cheek. She heard a familiar laugh and looked up. Gawain stood ahead of her, arms folded, leaning against the wall.

"Well, you are a mess!" he quipped, approaching her. Bryanne blushed.

"I was grooming Desra."

"I can tell." He reached up and used his thumb to brush away the dust. Bryanne bit her lip but made no move to step away.

"Gawain! Arthur wants us…" Lancelot trailed away as he caught sight of the pair. "In the hall." He finished quietly, blinking to shield his confusion.

"Coming." Gawain answered, winking audaciously at Bryanne, who covered her mouth with a hand to hide her smile. The two knights disappeared into the hall, and Bryanne quickened her pace to get to her room.

_Damn him!_ Lancelot cursed silently at Gawain, railing at the knight for being such a flirt. He was sure it was innocent… but it almost hadn't looked that way. He viciously discarded the doubt, deciding that why should he mind so much about what Bryanne did with herself. She couldn't return his feelings. Maybe she trusted him now, but he was still her enemy. She had said it time and time again. The words had never sounded so bitter now as they did before. Arthur dismissed them, and Lancelot rose abruptly, stalking from the room coldly. Oh, he hated how he loved her. Well, he'd certainly find out from her how she felt about Gawain. And why not? He had a right to know… Gawain was _his_ promiscuous friend, after all.

"Can I come in?" He asked, through the curtains, which had been (unusually) drawn.

"Oh! I… just a moment." Replied a flustered voice. Lancelot frowned, watching the shadowy silhouette dart about, and then blushed as he saw her lift a tunic from the stool and pull it over her head. She came over, using her hands to flick her braid out from the collar of the tunic before pulling aside the curtain. "Come in." She smiled welcomingly. "I was just… washing." She indicated the tub, which was still full of warm water. Her legs were bare, and he noticed the trickle of water down one calf. He cleared his throat and turned away so as not to torture himself.

"I just came to say hello." He said. "Three days away and all…" He waved his hand as if it finished his sentence.

"Of course." There was silence, as Bryanne seated herself on the edge of her bed and indicated he should sit on the stool. He obeyed.

"You know…" Her eyes met his, was that expectation in them? "If you were attracted to Gawain, you only have to say and I could help –"

"Attracted to Gawain!" There was hilarity in her voice. "Why would you think that?"

"In the hall…"

"I had dirt on my face. I had been grooming Desra." Her voice had grown quiet, and he studiously avoided her gaze.

"Oh. I see." Bryanne pursed her lips.

"Is that all you think of me?"

"What?" He was genuinely stunned at the question. Her eyes were like chips of stone. She was angry.

"Is that all you think of me?" She repeated. "A worthless wench. A loose woad girl!"

"No!" He protested. She stood abruptly. Lancelot followed suit, hands opened in an expression of innocence.

"I think you should leave." She said, pointing to the door, trying to swallow her anger and hurt, but it showed in the shake of her hands.

"Anne, I'm not going to leave." He said, somewhat sharply, a patronising, stern tone in his voice. Her eyes bore holes into his skull, just as they had in the wagon nearly six weeks ago.

"Then perhaps I should leave." She snatched the green dress she wore from the end of the cot. She strode across to Genna's basket, where the baby was sleeping quite happily.

"And where would you go?" Her laugh was like a shower of ice.

"Nowhere, Lancelot. Just as I've been going to nowhere all my life." She was collecting Genna's belongings together. The garment she had sewn, the wooden horse, a scrap of muslin from Arabia that Arthur had given her as a peace token four days after arriving.

"Don't be ridiculous, Anne." Lancelot protested, trying to take the things from her hands and place them down again. She jerked them away, her breath making her chest heave in anger. "You can't go."

"And why not?"

"Because I won't let you!" He roared suddenly, waking Genna who began to cry at the disturbance. Glaring at him, Bryanne put down her belongings and picked up her niece, hushing her gently. She looked at the Sarmatian who was standing stiffly, watching, waiting.

"You can't stop me, Lancelot." She whispered as Genna's cries dimmed to disgruntled burbling.

"And I won't." He said as the baby began to drift back to sleep. He waited until Bryanne had put Genna down again before he continued. "I don't _want_ you to go, Anne. I couldn't bear it."

"And what could you do to make me stay? Take what you said back? I'd still be a woad. I'd still be the enemy."

"Stop. _Saying_. That!" He huffed. "You're not my enemy. You never were." Bryanne studied his face closely. It was as open and as honest as she had ever seen it. "I won't take the words back, because I never said them. At least, not how you imagined. I was just jealous…" He hesitated.

"Jealous of what?" She asked, perplexed. He shrugged, looking away.

"Please don't go." He begged. Bryanne smiled, and blinked heavily.

"I won't go."

"You won't?" She shook her head. She spread her arms wide. The room was dim, and they could hear Genna breathing softly as she slept.

"As you said, where would I go? I've nowhere but here." He laughed shortly, relief in his voice.

"You honestly scared me." She smiled, some of the hurt evaporating as quickly as it had come. Her temper always got the better of her, it seemed. "You know, I could kiss you, I'm so relieved." He added. And so he did. He grasped her head in his hands, and kissed her. Momentary surprise was overcome when she felt his mouth pressed against hers. She closed her eyes, melted herself into him, exulting in the feel of his tongue against her lips, his hands holding her close...

**"Tell** me about the bargain the Sarmatians made with the Romans." She begged as they lay against each other in her bed. His fingers caressed her skin beneath her tunic, and she could feel his leather trousers against her bared thigh, his gentle breath against her neck. He laughed quietly, the jump in his chest knocking against her back.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. You always talk about your home, and your family and your village. And you talk about your battles here, with Arthur and the knights. But you never talk about the bargain. The one that brought you here." She twisted her head around so she could see half his face over her shoulder. A single brown eye, a raised eyebrow, and a single dimple in his cheek as he smiled ironically. She twisted in his arms to face him, curled her hands into his belt about his waist and nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck, where she could hear his heart beating and the blood pulsing just under the surface of his skin. Slowly, he began.

"By three hundred AD, the Roman empire extended from Arabia to Briton. But they wanted more – more land, more peoples loyal and subservient to Rome. But no people so important as the powerful Sarmatians to the East.

"Thousands died on that field, and when the smoke cleared on the fourth day, the only Sarmatian soldiers left alive were the members of the decimated but legendary cavalry. The Romans, impressed by their bravery and horsemanship, spared their lives. In exchange, these warriors were incorporated into the Roman military." He paused, and Bryanne waited, her eyes closed, listening to the smooth, rolling voice relive his country.

"Better they had died that day." He voice was deeper, sombre. "For the second part of the bargain they struck, indebted not only themselves, but also their sons and their sons and so on, to serve the empire as knights." He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. "I was such a son. It was the year four hundred and fifty-two AD, when I was twelve, when the day came. I saw the Romans coming to the village, more Sarmatian boys following on horses. My mother wept, and my father told me the story he always told me – how fallen warriors come back as great horses, and how my horse would know what is to become of me, and protect me. I've held that story close to me, as my comfort. But no more comfort than comes from this." He reached into a pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small carving, hung on a thong of tough, worn leather. Holding it between her fingers, Bryanne saw it was a delicately carved wolf. "My sister gave it to me. It's my talisman. My promise to return home someday." Bryanne kissed his neck softly, feeling his life throbbing through him.

"You'll return home." She whispered. Lancelot leant down and kissed the top of her head.

"It's a vow I made to myself as I rode away with those Romans. I could hear the war-cry come from my village behind me, and one day, I shall ride back to the same cry." He put his talisman back into his pocket, and closed his arms tightly around Bryanne's waist. "How long shall we be gone?" He whispered into the darkness. "Fifteen years." He answered himself, the memory he coveted in his mind was rarely brought out, to be touched and turned over to be seen from every angle, as a beggar might touch a priceless jewel with the same awe. "Fifteen years."...

**When** Bryanne woke in the morning, Lancelot was gone. The empty space where he had slept was already cold. Genna was murmuring to herself, waiting for her aunt to rise and feed her. The woad took the baby to the kitchen, her thoughts far elsewhere – in a land made of endless grass and sky. She smiled, and hummed a song to Genna as the infant sucked at her finger. As she was making her way back to her room, there was a great commotion. She went out to the courtyard to see Bors yelling and running about, the other knights equally as excited and bemused.

"What's happened?" Bryanne asked a passed servant.

"The mistress Lorella gave birth just a few minutes past." The servant replied, before disappearing into the warren of hallways of the servant's household. A smile gradually forced itself onto her lips, and she laughed as she approached Bors.

"Bors! I heard the news!" The giant man swept her up in a hug, carefully not to crush Genna, calling all the time.

"I know! I know! A son! Another bastard boy!" With that, he whooped with laughter and shot away. Bryanne laughed and shook her head, only to look up and catch Lancelot's eye. She looked away quickly, confused by the medley of feelings it caused in her.

She made her way to Lorella's chambers and nervously knocked on the door. A midwife opened it, looking stern.

"The mistress should not be disturbed –"

"Bryanne! Bryanne. Let her in, Alana, for goodness' sake." Came Lorella, her voice breathless. The piercing wail of a newborn baby rose up, and Bryanne entered the room to heat and bloody sheets and a sweaty, exhausted Lorella. "Even after nine, it doesn't get any easier." The older woman confided, moving herself into a more upright position. "Genna!" She cooed, reaching out for the baby. Bryanne gave her up and watched as Lorella babbled inanely at her.

"Congratulations." She eventually said. Lorella looked up, the sparky smile of a mother on her face.

"Thank you." She suddenly frowned and leant forward. "Here," she said in a conspiratol whisper, "Me and Bors was thinking. I've got enough milk. How about I feed Genna, eh? I mean, you could do with one less burden, and I certainly don't mind." Bryanne was rather taken aback.

"Well, I… I…"

"No need to answer right away." She said, leaning back. "An idea, is all." Bryanne smiled, and thanked her, agreeing that it would certainly be easier on her, as she had no milk herself. Lorella waved it off. "Like I said, I don't mind a dot. This one's a sweetheart!" She jiggled Genna, who chuckled and clapped her hands.


	9. Eight: Understanding

Why was she avoiding him? Bryanne was rattling him – unnerving his usually cool composure. It frustrated him. She had left the tavern when he had arrived, and this had been going on a week. They hadn't spoken. He hadn't even known about Lorella feeding Genna – my, was that a shock! Lancelot had now got himself into the nasty habit of getting completely and utterly drunk and having to be helped back to his room. He'd then lie in his cot, churning over and over in his mind what could have possibly gone wrong. Was it because he had left before she had woken? Was it because he had kissed her? Had he _forced_ that kiss on her? It was infuriating. The whole damn thing was infuriating. And _she_ was the most infuriating of them all. He down his wine and poured himself another. Galahad and Gawain glanced at each other, predicting the night's outcome.

Why was she avoiding him? She couldn't stay where he was – she'd been avoiding him all week. He caused such a blur of emotions that it confused and scared her. So she had kept to her room all week as much as she could, hoping that the next knock on the door would be him, but equally, fervently wishing that it wasn't. What had she expected? Some concurrence, some sign that showed her that this was the right thing to do? Some confirmation that she and Lancelot were meant to be? She sneered at herself for such a notion – a woad and a Sarmatian knight. As she lay alone, watching the moonlight play itself out across the floor, she reasoned with herself. How could she even demean herself? To desert her own faith, to betray her own people. Consorting with the enemy… she shouldn't even be here. She would leave in the morning, right away. But whenever morning came, her resolve faded with the crowing of the cockerel. She loathed herself for it. For her own uncertainty. She rose from where she sat at her table, staring at the knots in the wood, and decided to put paid to her doubts. Her feet led her to the tavern as if by will of their own, though she already knew what she was going to do.

Dagonet was the first to see her, but he quickly averted his gaze. There was something in her posture that made him feel shy of her. The others saw her too, but no one said a word. Lancelot, only on his third drink, was the last to notice. Her hand laid itself on her shoulder.

"Lancelot." She whispered, but he heard it over the raucous of the tavern as if it had been shouted from the rooftops by a hundred men. He turned to her, and the question in her eyes said it all. He rose, leaving his drink, and followed her into the night. Hey walked side by side, not touching, not speaking. Their footfalls landed light on the grasses of the paddocks they passed. As they came to the rise that marked the end of the Hadrian's Wall territory and the beginning of Southern Briton, Bryanne stopped and turned to him. "I need to know." She said slowly. She tilted her head and looked at him, the moonlight creating light and shadow over his face, so perfect he may have been simply a sculpted figure in a big art hall in Rome. "I need to know you." He frowned briefly, breaking the frozen spell that had alighted on him.

"You know me, Anne." She shook her head.

"No. I don't know you at all." Tentative fingers reached out and clasped his. "I've tried so hard to understand, and perhaps I do a little. But…" She frowned, searching for the right words. "There's still so much to learn. When I… when I converted… a lot of my friends shunned me. But I understood what they could not. I understood the power faith has. I believed… If they could see me now." She laughed, and took a step closer. The tourmaline gems that were her eyes sparked in the moonlight, daring him to believe… begging him to understand. "They would probably kill me for my betrayal. Loving the enemy…" Lancelot reached out and drew her closer in, and she could feel his soft breath on her cheek. "Daring to believe in something I shouldn't…" She murmured, but there was no more room for words as his mouth closed around hers. Her hand reached up and rested on his cheek. His hands held the small of her back through her dress.

It was only them and the night. Somewhere, a fox yipped for its vixen, and an owl found its prey. Their lips parted, and Lancelot sighed.

"My little vixen." She smiled, rubbing the pad of her thumb against the hollow in his cheek.

"My Sarmatian wolf." She breathed back, kissing him again. They remained in this embrace, savouring each other's warmth against the Briton-night chill.

"How can I make you understand me? What can I do to help you realise everything I now know about myself?" He asked, and she wondered if he asked her, or just the air. "You made me believe in something, Anne." He said, pushing his nose against hers and closing his eyes. "When I went away… when those woads attacked. All I could think about was getting back to you alive. I believed in you… I believe in you now." Bryanne smiled and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him again. She nuzzled into his neck and inhaled him deeply. She felt safe. And she felt sure, for the first time in a long time. His fingers traced patterns on her back, and she smiled at the shivers it sent up and down her spine. She moaned in pleasure, and Lancelot glanced down to her, a wicked smile on his face. "Hey." He gently moved her back so that he could look at her properly. "Let's get you back." He smirked and she pushed her tiny hands into his.

"Here." She replied, and they walked back to the flickering lights of the Wall. They paused by the tavern, watching the knights as if it were another life. Gawain raised his head and saw them at the edge of the light. With a inane yell, he raised his mug.

"Lancelot! We wondered where you'd gone!" Lancelot squeezed Bryanne's hand and looked down at her. She squeezed it in reply.

"We have forever." She whispered, releasing his hand and stepping onto the tavern veranda. She turned back to him. "Come on!" She laughed, and he grinned as he followed her to the table.

She sat at the end of the table, nursing her mug of spiced wine between her hands, listening the boisterous conversations around her. Bryanne kept glancing at Lancelot, catching his eye and looking away again, a knowing glint and a smirk telling him what she was thinking. He pressed his lips together, wanting to feel her mouth against his again, wanting to taste the sweetness of her tongue. He wished Gawain hadn't seen them – he wished they had gone, unnoticed, to his room… He banished the thoughts before they soured the evening. Galahad roared with laughter at a quiet joke Tristan had quipped out the corner of his mouth, and Bryanne laughed too, shaking her head. Lancelot swallowed his wine and heaved a sigh.

"Well. I'm far too tired to stay any longer." Bryanne announced, standing. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight!" The knights chorused. She glanced to Lancelot, but he couldn't be sure. Should he follow? Would the knights guess? In their states, they probably wouldn't notice if there was a rampaging bull in their midst unless it upset one of their mugs.

"Anne!" He hissed at her retreating back, snatching her hand when she turned. "This way." He murmured. He led her to the same alley where they had met Decimus and Severino. In the dark, he pushed her against the cottage wall, where the stones were smooth and cold, kissing her fiercely. Bryanne responded just as fervently, tasting him as if he were life itself. Lancelot ran his hands up her arms, moving her hands above her head and clasping them there, pinned against the wall. His whole body pressed desperately against hers. He ran his hands back down her arms, across the curve of her breasts, the ridge of her ribs and the arc if her belly and hips. He could feel her pulsing skin underneath her clothes, and ached to see it, touch it, taste it. Her arms draped around his neck, the fingers of one hand pushing themselves through the hair at the nape of his neck and massaging him through his curls. He groaned against her lips at the sensation, and he felt her smile. He moved his roving lips down her jaw and throat, to the small groove at its base. His teeth nipped the soft skin, inducing a moan. Her breath came out in short pants, and her mouth whispered:

"Lancelot." Time and time again until he covered her words with his lips. His whole body quivered with the sensation of her, and his hands wouldn't be stilled as they explored her every plane, every curve.

The sound of retching came from the end of the alleyway, breaking them apart. There was laughter and footsteps as Roman soldiers staggered to their quarters from a night of heavy drinking. Bryanne pursed her lips to muffle her giggles. Lancelot looked at her, his eyes round with mirth. He took her hand.

"Come on." He whispered, and they exited the alleyway as silently as they had come. They found their way back to their quarters with no encounters, but as they entered the hallway, they heard Galahad's voice raised in farewell. "Sh." He pressed a finger to his lips as they crept to their bedrooms. They hesitated at her doorway, and he kissed her again, the question in his urgency. With huge willpower, Bryanne pulled away.

"I can't. Not tonight." She breathed. "Genna." She offered in explanation, kissing him lightly, and shutting the door on him. Lancelot sucked the air between his teeth, knowing he should have more self control than this. One more night…


	10. Nine: Whatever Happens

Bryanne wore breeches and a tunic to much out Desra's stall. It was far easier than a cumbersome dress. She rolled the clean straw out with a pitchfork, spreading it across the bare stone floor.

"Jols!" Her heart quickened. Had it just been a dream? Had she imagined it? "How is Solmyr this morning?"

"Restless, Lancelot." The squire replied. Solmyr had gone lame in his left foreleg after the last time the knights had gone out, restricting him to his stall and the occasional supervised walk around a paddock – but no riding. "He's much better, and is putting weight on it."

"Is he ready to ride?"

"I'm not sure. I turned him out this morning, to give him a run – I thought he needed it." Lancelot looked across and saw Bryanne in Desra's stall. He nodded thoughtfully.

"Would you bring him in for me?"

"Of course." Jols took the stallions halter and lead rein from a hook and disappeared. It was just Bryanne and Lancelot in the stables.

"Anne." He whispered, approaching her stall, leaning on the door. She straightened, leaning on her fork. "I –"

"My head bloody murders this morning." Galahad complained to Tristan, holding his temples as if in display of his pain. Tristan smirked.

"Good morning, Lancelot… Bryanne." The quiet knight said, ignoring his companion's announcements.

"Good morning." Lancelot replied, Bryanne only smiled. "Anne… So I hope you've left enough straw for us."

"She used a lot, has she?" Galahad peered over the stall door.

"Not much." Bryanne replied, revealing nothing in her tone. She knew it had to be secret. As she had told herself every night for a week – a woad and a Sarmatian. It would disgust her if she had been in a different position. But it didn't stop the act hurting. "I'm sure there's plenty left."

And so it continued in much the same way – secret looks and soft touches as they passed each other. Every time they were left alone, they were intruded upon. It drove them both mad. And it got worse when, eight days later, Arthur summoned his knights once more to go and counter a woad attack further West down the wall. Bryanne had never known how frequent the attacks had been, and now she loathed the Briton rebels, wracked with guilt at the same time for such traitorous thoughts. She couldn't bear to watch them go, but couldn't bear to hide in her room when they left. They exploded from the courtyard in a thunderous cacophony of hooves and shouts. As he passed under the gateway, Lancelot looked back.

"I believe." He mouthed, before he was gone. Bryanne groaned, resting her head against the wall in the hope that it would drain her pain out.

"It's torture every time." Came a voice. She looked up in surprise. Lorella stood with her newborn in one arm, Genna in the other. She passed Genna to Bryanne and continued. "Wondering if they'll come back hurt, or if they'll come back at all."

"I –" She floundered.

"Don't try to fool me, Bryanne. I've got a woman's intuition." Bryanne laughed and shook her head. Lorella reached out and touched her arm. "When they come back, I'll look after Genna for the night." The woad had no answer but a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

They had to wait nearly a week for their return. On the afternoon of the sixth day, the horn from the watch on the Wall blared out the return of the Sarmatian knights and Arthur. Bryanne, from where she lay daydreaming in the paddock, could see the seven riders coming down the road at a great pace. She forced herself to stay where she was – to hide her eagerness to see him. Lancelot, however, was not so patient. He dismounted Solmyr and looked around for Bryanne. When he realised she wasn't there, he made his excuses and went to her room. It was empty. A jolt of alarm shot through him as he thought of Decimus and Severino and all the other Romans in the vicinity. None of them had taken too kindly to a woad. Had they… Would they… No. No, they wouldn't dare – Bryanne was in Arthur's care and they wouldn't question or disobey him. But still, where was she? Had he all just imagined it? Had it never happened at all? But he couldn't forget the pressure of her body against his, the sound of her breathing, the feel of her pulse beneath his tongue. It was real. It had to be.

Bryanne appeared to the dinner late. They were eating in the hall, and she slipped through the door bashfully. Galahad looked up, but made no remark as she seated herself next to Arthur. Bors shared a look with Lorella, but her eyes warned him not to say a word. The meal was eaten, in most, silently. Broken conversation littered the room, but there was a strange anticipation that awed them into quiet. Lorella waited until her newborn son had finished eating, then rose, politely taking her leave, with the parting words:

"I'll get Genna from your room, Bryanne. You can come and find her in the morning." Lancelot's head shot up, and stared darkly at Lorella, then at Bryanne. She caught his gaze, and he flicked his eyebrows up to express his confusion. Her brow dipped in a frown and she shook her head, to warn him not to say anything.

"Yes. Thank you, Lorella." Arthur stared at Bryanne, surprised that the protective woad had so happily given up her niece. "Genna has a bad tummy." She offered in explanation as the door shut behind Bors' mistress. "Lorella is more educated in such things than I."

"Of course. I hope she gets better."

"I'm sure it's passing." Bryanne replied evasively, bowing her head and taking a mouthful of food.

After a little more silence, Arthur rose.

"Knights." He said, his voice grave. Bryanne's stomach pitched with sudden foreboding. "As you have noticed, the woad incursions have been more and more frequent after the past few months…"

"I should go." Bryanne muttered, standing.

"No, Bryanne, please. Stay. I think that it would help if you heard this." Arthur pleaded, and she reluctantly sat back down. "As I said, the incursions are more frequent. It seems they have had word before it has reached us. I am told that Rome is planning to retreat from its further outposts." The knights muttered between themselves before they were silenced by a raised hand. "It is not immediate, and we may see no effect of it for a while yet, but the empire is suffering from attacks on all sides. The Emperor has decided to pull back the Roman forces closer to Italy. This means, that we may be leaving Briton." There was a stunned silence.

"Does that mean, once the Romans have left, we can go home?" Galahad asked hopefully.

"No." His face fell. "But I feel it is my duty to warn you – the woads have somehow heard of this. They will become more and more confident in the future. It will be more dangerous… and more frequent." Lancelot looked to Bryanne, whose face was unreadable. "Get some rest." Arthur finished. "It's been a long week." He sat back down, and the Sarmatians rose and left. Bryanne waited until the door had closed behind the last knight, before she turned to Arthur.

"Why did you want me to hear that?" The commander looked pained as he replied, his forefinger rubbing the stubble on his chin in thought.

"I felt that it was important to you." He sighed heavily. "The Romans will not leave so quickly as for it to be in the next few months. It may take years. But the woads… your people… they will not know that." He stared at her boldly. "If they hear that you are staying with us… you could be in a lot of danger."

"No." Bryanne replied softly. "I would be putting _you_ in a lot of danger." She looked at him. "That's what you mean. If my people hear that I am with you, they will come to find me."

"Maybe."

"I am dead to them, Arthur. My duty to them was done the day you took me from my home. The day I accepted you." She stood, pressing her fingertips against the table. "I could leave…"

"But then where would you go…" He added.

"And who would I go to?"

"Bryanne. I felt you should know. Before, my future… the future of the others… was clear. It was simple. Now… I don't know what will happen to us." He circled his hand to encompass the table. "There are so many empty places. I could name them… Percivale, Lionell, Kay, Garath, Bedivere, Bleoberis, Lucan, Palomedes, Lamorak, Safer, Pelleas, Ector, Degore, Brunor, Alymere and Mordred. They are all so clear in my memory." He looked at her, something like desolation in his eyes. "I couldn't lose them all, Bryanne. But I am scared that… that…" His voice choked. She rested a hand on his shoulder.

"That you might." He nodded. "Rome never did care for anyone but its own people, Arthur. Be thankful that you are one of them, and not one of the forsaken."

"I won't forsake my men."

"Then don't. Whatever comes, whatever happens… You will do what you can, Arthur, and that will be enough for them. They love you like a brother."

"I love them like my brothers too." He said fervently.

"Then see to it that you fulfil your duty to them. I couldn't fulfil mine to my people. And it's something that will hurt until the day I die. I wouldn't wish that regret on anyone." She let her hand drop to her side. Arthur was stunned at the wisdom she had spoken.

"Bryanne!" He called after her. She paused at the door. "You've gone beyond the call of duty. You have nothing to regret." She showed him a smile that told otherwise, and left him alone in the hall...

**The **moon shone brightly. It poured liquid silver across the floor tiles through the windows, and melted onto sleeping cheeks as softly as a lover's kiss. The room was eerily quiet without Genna. Restlessly, Bryanne paced the room. How could she go to him now? After what Arthur had said… She looked through the window, it had gone midnight. Sighing in resignation, she picked up a candlestick and lit the wick. It sputtered and burst into life, flickering golden shadows over her face. She crept out and looked up and down the deserted hallway. Somewhere, outside, a dog barked. A vixen screamed, and a rabbit died. She stepped into a pool of moonlight and approached the door with nervous hands, and pushed it open.

His room looked as if it had been lived in for decades. There were memories hidden in the corners, keepsakes scattered through the living space. Curtains hung over the door – heavy velvet to keep the heat in and the cold draughts out.

"Lancelot?" She whispered, closing the door behind her. A tendril of wind caused her candle to stutter. Her hand reached out to the curtain, and she held it there for a moment, demanding that her fingers stop trembling, forcing herself not to be afraid of what was beyond the curtain.

"Anne?" Came the disbelieving voice, and Bryanne pushed aside the curtain, allowing enough room for her to slip through. She paused, letting the drape fall back into place. He was on his bed, and had straightened from a slouch. His boots were in the corner, beside his two swords that were propped against the wall. The embers of the fire crackled and settled on each other, spitting feeble red light before dying one by one. His shirt was open at the collar, and his breeches crumpled from riding across the breadth of the Wall. He looked tired, but his eyes sparked with life. "What are you –?" She hushed him, setting her candlestick on the table. She saw his talisman by a large war helmet. She turned to him, and pressed a finger to his lips as he stood and approached her. Cupping his cheek, she rose on her toes and kissed him delicately. He laid his hands on her waist and kissed her back. Soft, pliant lips that urged themselves on hers, daring her to pull away, yet begging her to stay. For a second she moved back.

"Lancelot. Whatever happens. Whatever is to come; I want you to know that tonight… tonight we have forever." He shushed her, light butterfly kisses following each word.

"Always, my little vixen. We have forever." The fire gave a final snap, and a flurry of golden sparks, and then died. The moonlight overcame the candlelight and bathed them in milky radiance. She closed her fingers around his shirt and pulled it over his head, letting it fall to the floor. There was a new scar – bright red and vivid against his skin.

"Lancelot…"

"It doesn't hurt." He murmured back, as she traced her fingers over the damaged skin, feeling the uneven surface of the cut.

"No." She replied softly, letting her hands run over his chest, touching each scar in turn, each story. He led her backwards towards his bed, pulling her hands, urging her. She watched him through lowered lashes. His movements read to her with such eloquence, that it made her weak to think of it. His tall, square, masculine frame wove its own pattern that was unique to the point that no one could ever hope to replicate it. He ran his hands over her shoulders, opening the buttons there until her dress slipped down to her elbows. He lowered her onto the bed, and she watched him as he undressed her slowly, as if savouring each new exposure of her blushing skin. Time and again his lips would rest on this new part of her body he had discovered, before returning to her mouth. She watched as his eyes danced over the scars – the wound beneath where her ribs pressed against her skin, the long slice across her forearm, and other scars he didn't know of… By her left hip and between her breasts and a curve of pink over her right shoulder onto her shoulder blade and beneath the nape of her neck. Her hands fumbled at his breeches, shaking and restless. He smiled at her innocence, and covered her fingers with his, helping her. His dark eyes met hers as she registered surprise and then apprehension.

"Lancelot, I –"

"Sh. I won't hurt you, I promise." He showered her protests with kisses. He entered her with a long-held sigh. But, as gentle as he could be, Bryanne winced in pain, and he apologised in muted, agonised words. She brushed it aside, kissing his collar bone and flicked her tongue over his throat. He groaned, instinctively moving, drawing out an equal moan from Bryanne. As he moved deeper inside her, she rose her hips to meet his. They found their rhythm, every movement hurried, their bodies breathless with urgency and need. "Anne…" He gasped into her neck, his fingers tightly clenched as the sensations drove him wild, and closer to the edge.

They reached the edge together, hesitating at the precipice before tumbling recklessly over the brink, with unified cries, and into unfathomable darkness and bliss. His breath was warm against her skin where they lay, their movements halted, but their breathing quickened. Eventually, slowly, he moved to one side, and Bryanne instantly missed the warmth and nearness of him they had just shared.

"Lancelot." She whimpered, searching for him again.

"Here. Here." He said, his lips touching her forehead as he pulled her close, curling his legs around hers so they were entangled in a self-made paradise, lit by the moon and a waning candle. "Here." He whispered, as he fell asleep to the sound of her breathing, and the softly sweet scent of her skin and hair.


	11. Ten: Morning Comes

Dawn broke outside, and disturbed the two sleepers. Bryanne stirred and sighed, smiling at the feel of Lancelot.

"Good morning." He whispered.

"Good morning." She answered, opening her eyes and looking up into the still-sleepy face above her. He smiled groggily, his hand running up the length of her thigh, feeling her skin that seemed as smooth as marble. Bryanne sighed again, running her fingers in tiny circles at the base of his back. "You know…" She paused. "If I were home… this would be celebrated."

"Celebrated?" Lancelot asked mockingly. She shrugged and elbow to prod him in his chest.

"Yes." There was silence.

"How?" Lancelot asked.

"Feasting. Songs. Gifts." Bryanne smiled sleepily, closing her eyes again. He laughed. "What? Why shouldn't there be a celebration?"

"For every time?" He queried.

"No. Just the first."

"Oh, that's good. Because, if it were to be for every time, we'd certainly get very fat." Bryanne laughed with him.

"Oh! So much confidence!"

"Naturally." He twitched his eyebrows and smirked. They fell back into silence. Bryanne moved her head to stare at the ceiling.

"What would you do in Sarmatia?"

"For what?"

"To celebrate." Lancelot frowned; he couldn't remember a time when his village had celebrated. At birth, it was sad if it was a boy, and if it was a girl there was also some bittersweet sorrow that they had not borne a strong son.

"Well, first, we could sacrifice a goat to the heathen Gods, and then drink its blood, take off all our clothes and dance naked around a fire." Bryanne tutted as he chuckled at his own tease. "I don't know what we would do." He said eventually, his voice sober. "I don't remember if there ever was a time to celebrate." Bryanne frowned.

"That's sad."

"I suppose." He answered, shrugging. It had never bothered him before – he had never thought of it. "But, when I return… then there will be celebrations." His mind drifted, and she let it, as she herself tried to imagine what a Sarmatian celebration would be like. Somehow, she found it difficult to picture the faraway land. "You would come with me, of course." Lancelot suddenly added.

"I would?"

"Yes. When I get my freedom, I will take you with me."

"What about Briton?"

"We could visit. We'd build our own ship, sail it from the Black Sea all the way here whenever we wished." Bryanne laughed.

"Sail? You mean, on the sea."

"Yes. How else would you sail?"

"I've never been to the sea. It certainly would be an adventure." She commented slowly, wondering what it would be like leaving Briton and living with Lancelot in Sarmatia.

"Never?"

"Never."

"Ah, then I will show you it someday. It's truly a sight." He laughed. "Just water as far as you can see, moving up and down, with white-tipped waves that lap against the boat. You could go anywhere, see anything, just tip the sail with the wind and let it guide you."

"It sounds magical." Bryanne murmured.

"It is." Lancelot replied, smiling. "Everything is magical if you just want it to be." She laughed, moving one hand up her arm to touch his cheek and look at him fondly.

"You are the strangest man I have ever set eyes upon."

"Have you not met the other knights?" He asked, bewildered. She laughed again and kissed him. He pulled her closer, and they lay there as they watched the sun rise across the floor, lighting up the chair draped with his coat, and her discarded dress, crumpled on the floor. "I suppose we shall have to get up soon." He said as they heard the breakfast bell clang.

"Not yet."

"Yes." He instructed, untangling their legs and arms. "Come on." He rose, urging her up with him. As he reached for his breeches, he looked at her from the corner of his eye. Her bare skin looked all the more tempting in the morning light, as she padded silently towards her dress. Her legs were long, her back smooth and curved, there was a tiny, barely noticeable until she turned sideways, bulge in her stomach from months of good eating, and her breasts were full and voluptuous. She bent and picked up her dress, her bum rounded, and Lancelot turned away, smiling at his fortunes, as he pulled on his breeches and reached for his tunic.

When he turned back to her, she was dressed, and was smoothing the creases with her hands, trying to run her fingers through her hair and flatten it a little. She caught him staring, and looked at him, puzzled.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're just so beautiful." Bryanne laughed.

"Where have I heard that before?" He winked at her, and pushed aside the velvet curtain to let her past.

"I couldn't guess." He replied as she opened the door and peered out. Everyone was at breakfast. "We don't have to go in together." He offered as he saw her hesitation.

"No. I think it might be best if we didn't. Just for now." She looked apologetic, but he didn't mind. He would have suggested it if she hadn't.


	12. Eleven: Surprises

Secrecy was hard-kept in the barracks at Hadrian's Wall. Tristan, ever watchful, ever perceptive, guessed quickly, but said nothing. Arthur instantly knew the next morning, when they entered the hall separately. Lorella knew already, and Bors knew from his mistress. The only unknowing ones were Gawain, Galahad and Dagonet. It would only be a matter of time until they discovered the truth. Everyday would continue as normal – furtive looks and knowing smirks the only appearance of any change. And every night, a shadowy figure would dart from one room to the other, and return in the early hours of the morning. Wha was said in those quiet hours were only known by Bryanne and Lancelot – whispered promises and tales.

It all changed the day Lorella and Bryanne were sewing in the paddock. The knights were away again, but Bryanne had learnt to shut the fear out. It was a rare sunny day, and it warmed the back of their necks as they bent over their work.

"What is it that you are so in love with, Bryanne?" Lorella asked curiously after a while. Bryanne frowned, and paused in her sewing.

"Everything." She answered slowly. "But, if I were to choose one thing, it would be his eyes." Lorella smiled out the corner of her mouth, and looked at the younger woman.

"Why his eyes?"

"Because they're so…" She searched for the word. "Soulful."

"Soulful!" Lorella cackled.

"Don't mock. They are. When you look into them, you feel as if you're looking directly into his soul. You can see his every thought, every emotion. You can see _him_." She frowned. "That doesn't sound right… how do I make you understand?"

"No. That sounded right. I know what you mean. When he smirks and looks in that way, you know he's thinking something naughty or rude." Bryanne laughed, tilting her head back.

"Exactly." The older woman laughed too.

"Ah, I've lived with that bugger for twelve years now." Bryanne's eyes asked the question. "Ah, I met Bors a year into his posting here. I'd been bought by a Roman noble, and he'd taken me from Sarmatia, to Rome, to here. Not many know this, but I am nearly a whole year older than Bors. And far more experienced in the world. Oh… He was bullish and as annoying as hell, and I hated him at first. He'd pull my hair and shout at me and tell me I wasn't a proper Sarmatian." Bryanne snorted. That sounded like an infantile Bors all right. "Lancelot was just as bad. More cheeky and arrogant than bullying, I think. He knew he was a looker back then, too. All the girls fawned over him. And whenever one would say something, he'd smirk and look away, as if he knew something they didn't. He never got any better. He's five and twenty now, and almost as bad as he was when he was fifteen. Him and his passion for skirt… Don't worry about it. You have him well tamed."

"Oh, I don't worry." She smiled secretly, remembering the words Lancelot often whispered to her. _Always, my little vixen._

"And, of course, with the baby coming –"

"Baby!" Bryanne snapped, startled. Lorella looked baffled.

"Of course. Oh, come on girl, didn't you guess?"

"Well, no… I…" She trailed off, touching her stomach. _Baby?_ It was a ridiculous notion. It wouldn't happen. Not to her… And out of wedlock! With a _Sarmatian_. She groaned, and prayed to God Lorella was wrong.

"Don't be so upset." The Sarmatian woman waved it off. In truth… Bryanne wasn't. She shook her head.

"I can't be."

"And why not?" Lorella answered indignantly.

"Because…" She paused. Why couldn't she? And come to think of it, the signs showed… Oh God…

Lancelot trotted Solmyr into the courtyard, wincing at the sharp pain in his arm as he dismounted. That bloody woad… He looked around furtively for Bryanne, but she wasn't there. Wait… the woad girl approached Arthur quietly, and asked him a quick question. The answer accompanied a nod, and Bryanne disappeared again, not even looking at Lancelot. He frowned, something was wrong.

"Lancelot." Dagonet called. "Let me rebind that wound."

"It's fine, really, Dag, I –"

"Come on." The taller man steered his friend roughly towards his room, determined not to let him slip away. Lancelot followed Arthur with his eyes, as the commander slipped into the hall. Bryanne was waiting for him, and hesitated as he shut the door.

"What is it, Bryanne?" Arthur asked, concerned.

"I have to ask you… a favour."

"Anything."

"I trust you know about Lancelot…" Arthur nodded. Bryanne bowed her head, suddenly feeling very ashamed. "Then perhaps you could advise me on what to do."

"Is there a problem?" He indicated she should sit, and she obeyed, clasping her hands in her lap and staring at the woven fingers.

"Not as such…" She took a deep breath and looked pleadingly at Arthur. "I'm pregnant." She announced. Silence rang from the walls.

"Oh. I see." He hadn't much reply...

**"Pregnant!"** Lancelot yelped. She nodded, blushing. "Well that's..! That's good, isn't it?" He checked anxiously. Bryanne shrugged, looking down at her feet. "How long?"

"Nearly a month."

"A mon…" Lancelot was overawed, and sat down hard on his cot. He shook his head. "How?" Bryanne shot him a dirty look.

"If you don't know by now, Lancelot –"

"Of course, of course. I'm just… well, amazed."

"I noticed."

"What do we tell the others?" He cried after a moment of silence. "They're bound to notice, and how do we explain it?" Bryanne sat next to him, and he took a hand from her lap, tracing her fingers with his.

"Arthur is already telling them. They will know by now." Lancelot nodded. Then reached over and kissed her lightly.

"I do love you, my little vixen."

"And I love you, my Sarmatian wolf." She answered audaciously. "Come on." She took his hand and pulled him up. "We'd better go and confront what's sure to come." He laughed as she walked away, and snatched his arms around her waist, nuzzling his head into her neck. She slapped his roving hands away, scolding him. "I'm a pregnant woman!" He chuckled, half-leading, half-pulling her to the tavern.

What greeted them was not what they expected. They sat to an awkward silence, which was only broken with Dagonet raising his mug and announcing:

"To the forthcoming child." The words were repeated quietly around the table, and everyone drank a toast. Bors smacked his lips together and grunted as no one said anything else.

"A right bloody lot we are. We should celebrate. We've done it enough times with my kids!" He cackled gleefully as the knights laughed in confirmation. The tension dissipated, making Bryanne wonder if she had just imagined it. Lancelot's bemused expression told her that she had not. Lorella seated herself beside the woad, patting her lap comfortingly and winking.

"Ah, you have no idea." She teased. Bryanne looked apprehensive until Lorella laughed and waved her hand. "Don't be so worried. It's beautiful." The younger girl thought back to the day when she had seen Lorella, tired but jubilant, in her bed. She saw the devotion in her eyes when she looked at her children – all ten. And Bryanne, for the first time since discovering she was pregnant, began to feel excited and expectant for the months to come. Lancelot entwined his fingers in hers underneath the table, and kissed her temple. She looked at him. The man she had hated, the man she now loved… It terrified and thrilled her at the same time. But, in her months at Hadrian's Wall, Bryanne had learnt that mixed emotions were commonplace when dealing with Sarmatians. They were an unpredictable race.

Arthur took her hand as Bryanne rose to leave, and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

"Congratulations, Bryanne." He said quietly. She bowed her head in acknowledgement, and allowed Lancelot to lead her back to the quarters, where, for the very first time, they shared the same room without secrecy. They lay in her bed, listening to Genna sleeping and the voices outside.

"Genna will have a cousin." Lancelot whispered.

"She will. I wonder if she will love them."

"Very much so." He kissed her softly. The woman he had loved with every breath… their child.

"Will it be a boy, or a girl, do you think?"

"Most definitely a boy. And he'll grow up to be a strong, brave knight, with your eyes and my hair, and Solmyr's foal as his steed." Bryanne laughed.

"You have a lot of faith in that, I see. And what of Solmyr's foal? I have seen him care for no horse, nothing, in fact, except you."

"Then you are missing the sultry looks he gives Desra." Lancelot rumbled, his lips against her neck. Bryanne smiled at the idea.

"That would be a beautiful foal indeed."

"It will be a beautiful son. He must have the most beautiful horse on this island to ride." Bryanne pouted her lip mockingly, nodding. "What?"

"Oh nothing. But, what if it is a girl?"

"It won't." At her raised eyebrows, he added quickly: "But, if it is, then she shall be the fairest girl you ever did see. Tall and elegant – a perfect Briton, and a flawless Sarmatian, and wiser then Arthur." Bryanne gasped.

"Isn't that blasphemy, my dear knight?" He laughed.

"Of course not." There was silence. "You know… you talk of blasphemy as if following Arthur were a religion."

"Well, isn't it?" Lancelot opened his mouth to speak, then paused, closing it again. He frowned.

"I never thought of it like that. I suppose so… but, you see, it's more of a brotherhood. A friendship."

"Do you have no religion, Lancelot?" The Sarmatian thought for a while.

"If I were to think about it hard enough, it would probably be my native religion… but I barely remember what it was." He bit his lip. "I told you once I have few beliefs. I maintain that. But, now, I have found something to have faith in." He caught her questioning look. "You." He whispered. She laughed, and he looked hurt. "I'm serious, Anne. I've never believed in someone so strongly as I have you."

"Lancelot…" Bryanne murmured.

"It's true." He said, his voice so soft she almost had to strain her ears to hear it. She shut her eyes, smiling.

"Go to sleep, Lancelot."

He woke later, when the night was at its darkest, to find an empty space beside him. In momentary panic, he sat up. From the glowing embers of the fire, he saw a silhouette by Genna's basket – Bryanne holding the child and gently rocking her, hushing her.

"Anne." He made as if to rise, but Bryanne tutted at him.

"Go back to sleep, Lancelot."

"Is she okay?"

"Fine." Bryanne looked at the now dozing child. "She just woke, that's all." She hummed a little more until Genna was fully asleep, and then crept over to Lancelot, creeping under the covers with him. He slid his hands about her waist and quickly fell back asleep again. Bryanne lay awake a little longer, watching his peaceful face and feeling his chest rise and fall under her hand. She was suddenly overcome with doubt. Could she do this? Could she have a bastard child with a knight… her enemy? She didn't know what to do with Genna, let alone caring for her own. She frowned, biting back her qualms forcefully. No, she couldn't turn back now. God had taken from her everything – her family and her home, and given her Lancelot. And now this child. She could live again. But to live like this… Constantly in fear of losing him, having to stay at home, never knowing, always hoping, he was safe. _Sleep_, she told herself, _it will all look different in the morning._


	13. Twelve: Heaven and the Mystery

And it did. Summer was in full bloom around them, but the morning rose with a heavy, damp fog. It muffled all sounds – even the breakfast bell sounded distant. Bryanne wore the cloak she had been sewing the day before over her dress, and she and Lancelot made their way across the hushed courtyard to the hall. Breakfast was a simple affair, and the haggard faces told her that the other knights had continued 'celebrating' long into the night. Arthur smirked with her as they caught each other's eye. He, at least, looked none the worse for wear. There was a rapid knock at the door, and, before Arthur could summon them, Jols burst in.

"Arthur. They call for you. There's been an attack…" He didn't finish as Arthur swept from the hall.

"Bloody woads, can't they leave us to rest for one sodding day?" Bors grumbled. "Sorry, Bryanne. No harm meant."

"No offence taken." She answered quietly, looking to Lancelot. Secretly, she prayed he wouldn't go, but knew that he would never abandon Arthur. He managed a tight smile, but stared at his plate, the food barely touched, until Arthur came back. Without a word, Bryanne stood and left, as too did Lorella, cradling her baby. They waited in the courtyard until the knights came out and met them. Tristan stalked past without a word, and mounted his horse, releasing his hawk, before cantering out of the courtyard. Gawain, checking his saddle bags, was the only one to offer an explanation.

"A Roman noble was ambushed and slaughtered East and South of here. The guards with him claim that the woads are still nearby, and so have asked for us to make a safe passage." Lorella grumbled under her breath about there being no point, what with the noble dead, and besides, the guards should be able to handle themselves. Lancelot approached Bryanne.

"There is a family there. We'll be back soon, I promise." She nodded, and he kissed her on the forehead before mounting Solmyr and digging his legs into the stallion's side. "Ya!" He cried, and the knights followed Arthur away into the fog. Bryanne followed her inside, shaking the dew from her hair, and seating herself wearily in Lorella's room. Another long, nervous wait.

Lancelot rode beside Arthur, in silence, his brooding face telling all. Arthur sighed guiltily, and his friend looked at him.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Today should have been just you and her."

"It isn't your fault." Lancelot shrugged it off, and stared forwards again. "Just make sure we get back soon." Arthur laughed.

"You'll do that yourself, I'm sure." Lancelot grinned wickedly, before kicking Solmyr into a gallop. Arthur, eager for the challenge, followed suit, until the still air rang with seven horse's hooves and the whoops and yells of exultant knights. The shouts died on their lips as they came upon the caravan they were sent to protect. A wheel had been caught in a rut and some of the spokes had splintered. Arrows were dug in the wood of the van, and uneasy horses of the guards snickered and pranced at the sudden appearance of the knights. A guard stood up, sword unsheathed, unprepared for the intrusion.

"Who goes there?" He demanded.

"Arthur and his knights, from the Great Wall."

"Lower you weapons." He instructed the other guards, who had also leapt to your feet. "Thank God you've come Arthur, we can here those devils all about, but with this fog, we can't do a thing." Arthur dismounted.

"The family?" He queried. The guard indicated the van.

"Inside. They're terrified. My lord is dead and one of the servants too. The boy is injured, I think, but not so bad as to worry." Arthur opened the door to the caravan, counting three servants, a woman, a son and two daughters.

"Get them out and make sure you surround them for protection. Bors, lift this van out of the rut. Tristan, I trust you can find some wood to replace these broken spokes." Tristan nodded, and trotted away into the gloom, whilst Bors, Dagonet, Lancelot and Arthur lifted the now empty van out of the ground onto a steadier platform. Using swords and wooden pegs, they managed to fashion boles to replace the spokes, and fit them temporarily to the caravan. "It'll hold until we get to the wall, where you can get a replacement wheel". Arthur told the guards. "Surround the van when we're moving, my knights and will cover you." Gawain, Galahad and Bors were sent to back of the file whilst Dagonet and Lancelot rose with Arthur at the front, and Tristan kept a little way ahead, to be look-out. The sun had risen high now, and the fog was already thinning.

The wall loomed suddenly before them, and the road carved itself into a better trodden highway. Lamps flickered down either side of the road, but the fog had long been burnt away by the sun. Lancelot looked at Arthur, who simply nodded. Lancelot kicked Solmyr into a gallop once more, and thundered past Tristan, who shook his head at the impish antics. Bryanne had taken to her favourite spot in the paddock, and Lancelot quickly found her there, vaulting over the fence and landing with a thud next to her. After her initial shock, Bryanne laughed, a playfully pushed him away.

"You're a devil! Frightening a delicate woman!"

"Delicate!" He scoffed, but prevented her retort by kissing her fiercely, pressing her into the grass that was still damp.

"You were only gone a day." She laughed breathlessly, trying without success to push him off. He rolled away onto his back, legs and arms sprawled out and head tilted to the sun.

"But it felt like a lifetime."

"You are dramatic." She turned onto her belly and rested her chin on his chest, looking at him through lovingly scathing eyes.

"No." He looked down at her, and ran his fingers through the loose bit of hair that escaped her braid. "Just in love." Bryanne sat up, hugging her knees, frowning thoughtfully.

"That's just it though." She announced. "We've known each other just over four months… is that enough to love?"

"You tell me. I know what I feel is love. What is it you feel?" The woad paused, her breath shallow.

"Love." She whispered, and felt a sting of tears.

"Hey…" He comforted when he saw her cry, sitting up and pulling her close, his arms around her shoulders. She buried her head into his neck, feeling the cold metal of his breastplate against her cheek. "Sh, now." He laughed softly. "What is it you're scared of, hm?" She pulled away and looked at him right in the eyes, searching for something, desperately, hoping fiercely that she'd find it. She felt drowned by what she saw there.

"You." he replied hoarsely. "I'm scared of this…" She pointed to her stomach. "And I'm scared of this." She waved to encompass the Wall.

"Why?"

"Because God took it all from me once, why couldn't he take it from me again?" She sobbed. Lancelot was stunned. He fumbled for words, but found none. He pulled her close again, in the hope to help her find some safety.

"It sounds like you really have faith." He mocked.

"I believe in Him, Lancelot, but sometimes I find it hard to have faith. It's not easy to trust someone who has given you a family and taken it, and given you a home and taken it." She looked desolately at him. "Why should He not take you, as well?"

"Because I won't let Him." Lancelot replied fiercely. "In His eyes, I am a pagan… and therefore He cannot reach me. He cannot decide my destiny." Bryanne nodded, a nod that wished she could believe him, but somewhere she did not truly think so. "I love you, Anne. Can that be enough?" She clasped his head in her hands and smiled.

"That is all I will ever need." She gathered her skirts in her hands and stood. "Just say it to me everyday for the rest of our lives, and I will be happy." Lancelot stood, amused, and ran his hands over her shoulders and down her arms until he clasped her fingers.

"I shall say it to you a thousand times a day, and you shall be ecstatic!" Her laughter sounded so pure that whenever he thought back on it afterwards, it still gave him shivers. She sprang away, feet flying over the grass across the paddock and to the wide fields beyond.

"Ecstasy is reached only in heaven, Lancelot!"

"Then let me take you there!" He shouted back, darting after her, her voice ringing in his ears like a song...

**It **was a comfort to talk to him. Arthur's voice was soothing, and his words were full of wisdom. He was like a warm fire after coming in from the winter cold. Bryanne smiled at him as he spoke, and his face lit up with a return curl in his mouth.

"You are the mystery, Arthur!" She said, after he had told her how ambiguous he found her for the hundredth time.

"How so?" He asked indignantly.

"You are a man of peace, and a man of freedom and free will." She leant her chin on her hand and cocked her head to look him closely. "And yet… you kill your own people. And your knights, they are neither free, nor have a will of their own. They are bound to you by duty. How can you say one thing and do another?"

"I am not a barbarian, or monster." Arthur answered hotly.

"No." her voice was slow, calculating. "Because, though you are so determined to see us all dead, you also save us. Like you saved me… and Genna. So you see, you confound me yet again, Sir." He smiled and shrugged. It had been a question that had plagued him in his dreams for years. He had never heard it spoken before. Why did he kill them, and yet save them? Was it his Roman half and British half fighting?

"I do not like to be an easy person to read." He gave in answer. "You know," at this, he leant forward as if revealing a secret, "a very wise man told me that some people had to give up their free will, so that others may live in peace and freedom."

"Is this what your knights are doing?" He pouted.

"Yes. In some ways."

"This man, he sounds very clever indeed."

"He is."

"Where is he now?"

"Rome."

"Ah." Bryanne sighed, sitting back and lowering her eyelids to hide her true feelings. "He is a Roman."

"I am a Roman, and I am not so evil. Not all Romans are evil."

"No, but contrarily, you are half Briton. Does it not ever occur to you that it is that half that fights for freedom – that saves those people you spare?" She rose from her seat, bowing her head to take her leave. "So, you see, you are only half evil." He laughed as she walked away, leaning back in his chair. "Arthur?" She paused.

"Yes."

"What is his name? This wise man?"

"Palagius." He answered, smiling fondly at the name. Bryanne nodded.

"Perhaps, if he were to come to Briton, I will meet him. Maybe he is only half evil too." With that, she left, and Arthur chuckled to himself at the simplicity of her words; the truth so openly and accurately spoken. Half evil… a man of God would never be evil. But himself… he wondered. Which half was evil? His father's or his mother's? It was a question that was not to be answered for years to come.


	14. Thirteen: Solace

Lancelot lay beside Bryanne on the hill that edged Hadrian's Wall's borders. Summer was drawing slowly to a close, the bitter air turning the leaves from green to red and gold and brown. The breeze had a chill to it, and they wore cloaks to keep away the biting touch. He was teasing her, and using a piece of grass to tickle her neck. She kept batting it away, but he crept it back, until she sat up indignantly.

"Lancelot! If you don't stop that this instant, I'll…"

"You'll what?" He asked, cheekily, with a dimple in one of his hollowed cheeks, and a glint in his deep, soulful eyes. He was thinking something naughty, Bryanne thought.

"I'll leave." She said, standing and storming down the hill. He rushed after her, dropping the blade of grass.

"No! Wait!" She laughed, breaking into a run, and he loped after her, casually snatching her into his chest. Wildly shouting and laughing, they tumbled and struggled, eventually landing up in a breathless heap on the floor. "I hope the fall didn't hurt the baby." Lancelot checked, with concern. She slapped him on the arm.

"Don't be so fretful. I'll know when I'm too weak." He smiled at her as she stood and, brushing dirt from her skirts. The slight curve in her belly was the only sign of her pregnancy, and it gave him a thrill every time he caught sight of it. She began to walk away, but stopped, hand touching the bump.

"Anne?" He asked, as she suddenly doubled over, groaning. He took her by the arms, leaning over to see pain writ on her features. "Was it the fall?"

"No." She huffed, wincing. "No." Suddenly, she cried out, dropping to her knees, clutching her stomach.

"Anne!" The dark red flower of blood blotted her skirt, and spread thin tendrils outwards.

"Lancelot." She gasped, before screaming again. He didn't know what to do, so scooped her up in arms, trying to ignore the heat of blood against his skin. He rushed back to the barracks, people staring as he went past.

"Dagonet!" He shouted. "DAGONET!" The Sarmatian appeared calmly from the stables, took one look at Bryanne and turned pale.

"Bors, get Lorella." He instructed coldly, taking Bryanne from Lancelot and whisking her away to the infirmary. Lancelot held a hand to his forehead, feeling cold and bleak.

"Oh, please let her be okay." He whispered as Lorella rushed past him. Bors held his newborn son, and wrapped his spare arm around his companion's shoulders in a feeble attempt to comfort him.

He waited in the stables for hours, his hand methodically rubbing Solmyr's muzzle, his eyes staring into nothing.

"Please, please." He begged, calling on all the deities, all the powers he could think of to make her okay. Dagonet appeared at the door, and beckoned to him. "Please." He whispered a final time, and allowed himself to be led to the infirmary. Bryanne lay in a cot, her face drained of colour, eyes staring but unseeing. A servant was tidying away bloodied sheets, and Lancelot could smell the iron tang of it, mixed with herbs and medicines that caught in the back of his throat dryly. "Anne?" He asked, but she gave no reply. Lorella was washing blood from her hands and wrists in a basin of warm water. "Lorella, what happened?" The woman turned to him, sorrow etched onto her face.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"What happened?" He demanded.

"She went into early labour." Dagonet provided, from behind them.

"The child was stillborn?"

"No, Lancelot." She shook her head. "It wasn't even a child."

"What – what do you mean?"

"Babies grow, inside." Lorella explained calmly. "After a while, they become a child, but this one was too early. I'm sorry." Lancelot felt he would have rather it been a stillborn. Not a… nothing. He sank into a chair, unable to think, let alone speak.

"What caused the labour?" He eventually questioned. The Sarmatian woman shrugged. "Would it have been a fall?"

"No. It would have had to have been a fall from the top of the Wall, if it was… Perhaps her old wounds damaged her internally." There was silence. "Bryanne lost a lot of blood. She's tired. You should let her sleep." Bryanne stirred at the sound of her name.

"No." She said hoarsely, and Lancelot looked at her. "I don't need to rest."

"But, Bryanne…"

"Take me home Lancelot." She ignored Lorella's protests. Silently, he obeyed, gently lifting her and carrying her back to his room, where she soon fell asleep in his cot. He watched her silently, thoughts full of children and sons. She would blame her God for this… but he would blame himself, only himself.

When Bryanne woke, she saw the slumbering form of the knight, still in the chair. She rose, covering him with a blanket and kissing him on the forehead, before wrapping a cloak about herself and seeking out Arthur to ask for more cloth – she'd need another dress. When she returned, Lancelot woke, and looked at her anxiously.

"Are you well enough to be walking?"

"Yes." He pulled her onto his lap, and she ran a hand through his hair. "I don't feel anything."

"Nothing?" She shook her head.

"It is as if it had never been there at all." Lancelot forced himself not to cry. He couldn't bear to show weakness where Bryanne showed such strength. She kissed him softly. "You can grieve, Lancelot. Don't be ashamed." His eyes followed her across the room as she headed for the door. "It was a boy." She told him, not even looking back, as she swept through the curtain. And so Lancelot wept; deep, body-wracking sobs that shook him in mind, body and soul; hot tears that coursed heavily down his cheeks, and moans of deep-set pains – grief that would never be lifted, the grief of a father who has lost his son. Bryanne couldn't grieve. She felt the emptiness where once she had felt life. She felt nothing where she should feel anguish, pain. In desperation, she sought out Genna from Lorella. She took the sleeping baby in her arms and looked upon the face that had saved her.

A week passed, and Bryanne did not go to Lancelot's room. She did not go to the hall, or the tavern, or the stables. She did not go to her paddock or the hill, and did not go for walks in the woods. She did not see Lorella, or the knights, or Arthur. Bryanne abandoned the comforting world she had built for herself, becoming a recluse in her room. Arthur went to Lancelot, whose woe-filled face pained him to see.

"Lancelot, you have to go to her." He begged.

"And what would I say?"

"Whatever comes to your heart. She needs you now, more than ever before." The Sarmatian shook his head, his lips pursed.

"She is stronger than I."

"No! She is not!" In frustration, Arthur shook his friend. "You see a cold strength inside her, and so do I. But she cannot use it alone. She needs you as much as she needs air to breathe! I see it in her face when she looks at you. Whatever inner vigour she has found, she found it from _you_. Please, just go to her." He stepped backwards, shrugging lightly. "If not for myself, and if not for her, for yourself. You're not you anymore, Lancelot." He turned away, hoping his words had some effect on the stubborn knight.

His words meant something, for Lancelot visited Bryanne that evening, without waiting for an answer to his knock. She lay in her bed, head turned to face the wall, her complexion ill in its pallor. She looked thin, and there was a plate of untouched food on her table. Genna was nowhere to be seen.

"Anne?"

"Leave me." Her voice held no emotion, no warmth.

"Anne, may I speak?" She turned her head to look at him as he sat himself on the edge of her bed. He rested a hand on hers, and though she flinched, she did not move it away. "I came to ask you one question. Do you have the power to live?" There was silence. "Because, without you, I can't live. You are my power."

"I am nothing." She looked away again.

"Yes you are. You are everything. You made me believe."

"No."

"Yes!" He cried, clenching his hand around hers. He knew he was hurting her, but he didn't care. "You made me believe in something Anne! You gave my heart the gift to beat. You have given me everything." He leant into her desperately. "Don't take it away from me, Anne." She sat up and stared into his eyes, searching, hoping to find something in his eyes, just as she had that time ago. She tilted her head. She did it so often, he barely noticed the habit, but it struck him, in that moment, as beautiful. Suddenly, it seemed that she found whatever she had looked for. Dam gates burst open, and she threw herself into his chest, weeping all her hopelessness into him. He held her, until the moon rose high enough to be seen through her window, and until she finally stopped. They lay down, her whole body wearied.

"I can't look at her anymore, Lancelot." She whispered.

"Look at who?"

"Genna." He frowned, as she continued. "She once gave me life and hope and faith. But now, when I look at her, instead of wonder and happiness, I feel… nothing. I'm empty. I do love her, Lancelot. I love her as fiercely as ever. But I feel I've failed her… I realise now… I realise now that I cannot hope to give her the life she needs." He looked at him, asking him for support.

"I don't understand."

"I can't keep her." Bryanne whispered. Lancelot couldn't answer, and she fell asleep in his arms, head leaning on his chest, her words echoing like a death sentence…

**Bryanne** still refused to leave her room. Lancelot was at a loss as to what to do – her once bright eyes were dull and lifeless. She barely ate, her skin becoming lacklustre and pallid. It pained him to see her so. Lorella never once complained about caring for Genna, but he knew that the woad would have to face her niece at some time. The baby was growing fast, learning to mumble incoherent words, learning to crawl, to stand (as long as she had the support of someone holding her). Lancelot watched it all with fascination, seeing the life grow ever stronger. He wondered what his son would have looked like, and in the dark nights, as Bryanne slept beside him, her back turned to him, he imagined a child – with tourmaline eyes and curls of dark, ebony coloured hair. He imagined it grow, honey-skin and fine bones, with her laugh and his dimples. It was a bittersweet torture. He imagined Genna as a toddler, playing with his son as a babe… but where he had once found tears, he now found an emptiness. He had spent his grief, and now only plagued his mind with 'what-if'.

Autumn crept up on them with driving winds and heavy rains, and bitter chills that froze the knights to the bone as they rode, and made their horse's breath come out in thick clouds of white fog. A heavy sky, overcast and grey, reflected the mood in Lancelot and Bryanne. They no longer made love, they simply lay side by side, touching and yet so far apart. The laughter was gone. Silenced by the heartache that divided them. It was on a rare day, when the sky hung limp and damp, but had finished with its torrents of rain, that Lancelot begged Bryanne to walk with him. Wearing thick boots and heavy wool cloaks against the cold and mud, they made their way through the barracks, past the tavern. It was mostly empty – a couple of soldiers gambling quietly. Bryanne's head was bowed, her hands sagging at her sides. What had become of the beautiful, fiery creature he had known and loved? What had become of that Bryanne? Was she still in that shell, the cold, listless body that walked beside him? He took her towards the paddock where she had often sat in the Spring. Lorella was there, with her son and Genna and few of her other children. Could he love what Bryanne had become? Lorella looked up, and caught sight of them. She was kneeling, holding Genna's hands as she precariously stood on her own two feet. They stopped a little distance away, and Bryanne watched her niece as she tried to let go of Lorella's hands and stand unaided. With a thump, she sat promptly down in the grass and giggled. Lorella smiled, helping her back up and talking some unheard words. Bryanne took a step closer to Lancelot, and her hand reached for his. He looked at her and smiled as their fingers entwined themselves. Tears shone in Bryanne's eyes, and she looked up at the Sarmatian.

"Do you understand now?" He whispered and she nodded. "Life is so precious, and you have to believe in it to make yourself live." He leant down and kissed her temple. "You made me believe. Can I help you to?"

"I never stopped, Lancelot." She answered, standing on her toes and kissing him lightly on the lips. "You'd never let me." There it was, the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Genna, who had been her gift and her burden, and made her live again. Lancelot never realised that it wasn't the sight of the baby that had brought Bryanne back, it had been his faith in her, and in her niece. That night, as they lay side by side once more, he felt a tentative hand slip underneath his shirt and run its fingers across his muscles there. As their hands found each other again, after so long, he whispered in her ear:

"There's my little vixen." He heard a soft laugh – the first in a lifetime.


	15. Fourteen: The Pendant

Desra snickered as Lancelot brought in Solmyr. The stallion's coat was drenched in rain and rose in fingers of steam as they entered the warmth of the stables. Bryanne's head appeared over the stable door, her hair ruffled, and a piece of straw tucked into the braid. Lancelot laughed as he put Solmyr in his stable and approached her.

"Well, well, well." He smirked. "You _are_ a mess!" She pushed his chest lightly as he kissed her.

"You're wet." She groaned, wiping the rain from her cheeks. Laughing, Lancelot shook his head, sending sprays of water in every direction. Shrieking, Bryanne darted backwards, and Desra snorted in dismay – she'd just been groomed dry. "You beast!" He shrugged, beginning to walk away.

"Never complain about being wet, then." This was followed by an 'oomph' of surprise as he was knocked to the floor; Bryanne had tackled him into a stack of hay. Crowing with obvious victory, she straddled his waist, pinning him down so he couldn't move. He struggled until he got his upper body upright and grabbed her waist, trapping her against him. She yelped as the cold water soaked through her tunic and breeches. Cackling wildly, Lancelot kissed her, and felt her struggles melt away. He tasted her tongue eagerly, smelling the scent of cooked apples and wood smoke from her hair.

"Ach!" Cried a disgusted voice. They looked up to see Gawain at the door to the stables, hands held up as to ward them away. "Not in the _stables_, Lancelot!" Bryanne blushed heavily, laughing as they detangled themselves and she rose, straightening her tunic and plucking hay from her hair and clothes and boots. Lancelot picked himself up, brushing himself down. Bryanne smirked, and pulled the hay out of his hair.

"Blame her." Lancelot retorted, nodding his head towards the woman. Gawain headed for his horse's stall, picking up a bucket with brushes in.

"Those sort of displays are to be kept to the bedroom."

"Don't preach what you don't practice, Gawain." Bryanne quipped. The Sarmatian blushed to the roots of his sandy-brown hair. "I saw you in the alley last night with the girl from the tavern."

"I… it…" He spluttered, knowing he'd lost the argument. Lancelot laughed at the floundering knight.

"Don't worry, Gawain." He said, wagging a finger and heading for the door and the sheet of rain. "She has that effect on me too."

"I… she… keep her under control Lancelot!" Gawain managed to announce, spreading a pleading hand towards the grinning woad.

"I try. But, I think it is _she_ that has me under control." Lancelot shouted back, disappearing into the curtain of silvery rain. Gawain growled mockingly and glared at her. She blew him a kiss before following Lancelot, bowing her head and running as fast as she could across the courtyard to the awning over the door to the quarters. Lancelot was waiting, and pulled her to him, as they panted with laughter, their clothes sticking to them. "I got you something." From a pocket, he lifted a silver pendant out. Set into it was a tourmaline, and it sparkled, capturing the light from the candles in the brackets on the wall. Bryanne gasped, and took the pendant, hanging it over her neck.

"I'll never take it off."

"You'd better not! It cost me everything." She laughed at him, slapping his chest wetly. He looked at her, his gaze softening. Water dripped from her braid and nose and chin, and ran down the back of her neck, under her tunic, and trickled into her boots, freezing her feet. Her teeth began to chatter with the cold and the knight chortled at the bedraggled sight. "Let's get you inside and warm." He said, taking her into the quarters to his room.

She was shivering so uncontrollably that her lips had gone blue and pink dots had appeared in her cheeks and on her nose. Lancelot prodded the fire until it crackled into life again, and then proceeded to peel her tunic off and lay it close to the flames to dry. She kicked off her boots, scattering mud, straw, hay and water across the tiles. He helped her out of her breeches, and she crawled under the sheets of his cot as she watched him undress himself. He used his hands to scrub some of the water from his hair and scampered over to the bed, his teeth clattering too. They curled together as they watched steam rise from their damp clothes.

"I… _hate_… British autumns…" Lancelot stuttered, and Bryanne chuckled.

"It will get better."

"Better hope so." He grumbled. "This isn't very uplifting." She snuggled closer, murmuring:

"I'm sure I can find something to uplift you."

"I'm sure you can." He answered, feeling the familiar response and allowing himself to be swept away by the sensations she created in him…

**The** hot wine felt good as it slid down Bryanne's throat, and she finished it quickly, holding out her cup for more. Galahad laughed and poured her another. She grinned wickedly, before gulping more wine.

"Thirsty?" Tristan enquired lightly.

"Parched." She replied, wiping an escaped trickle from her chin. The quiet man shook his head in amusement. "I see you are not drinking." He looked at her oddly. "Nothing wrong with that…" She added.

"Pour me some wine, and I will drink." He said, and she obliged. "Though, I had decided not to – so as not to embarrass some people." He nudged Galahad, who choked on his drink. There was mirth around the table that died out as conversation flowed separately. Dagonet and Bors, brothers in everything but blood, Galahad and Gawain, Lancelot and Arthur and Bryanne (who refrained from saying much). Tristan sat quietly – the strangely accepted outcast. He watched Bryanne from under his long mane of dark hair, his black eyes never leaving her face. He dug the tip of his dagger into the table and twisted, carving out a thin reel of wood shavings. Lancelot rose to get another jug of wine – Lorella being in bed with her children. Tristan rose too, and followed him, standing silently next to the Sarmatian until Lancelot addressed him.

"What is it, Tristan?"

"Bryanne."

"Why? What's wrong with her?" Lancelot's voice was sharp with suspicion as he looked at the woad. Nothing seemed to be wrong – she was in an animated discussion with Gawain, her head tilted just to one side.

"Nothing. But she has something on her mind."

"So?" Lancelot poured himself some of the wine before lifting the jug to take it back to the table.

"It's important." Tristan stated, and watched his friend return, before following him a little while after. Bryanne was preoccupied. She had some idea… some plan… something dramatic brewing.

Damn Tristan and his comments! The day had been going so well and now all Lancelot could think about was what Bryanne could be thinking about. He could think of nothing she had said earlier that day. He went to sleep that night knowing his dreams would be haunted. And when he woke, to a frantic pounding on the door, he felt a chill to his bones that was not created by the wintry morning outside. The rain had subsided, it seemed, but Jols could not have cared less.

"LANCELOT!" He roared. Bryanne groaned and rolled over, pulling more covers around herself.

"Open that bloody door, Lancelot." She mumbled. He stood and yanked on some breeches before opening the door. Jols looked frenzied.

"Arthur wants you. Get dressed in your armour – you're going out."

"Out where?" But Jols had already gone. Swearing, Lancelot stumbled about the room, throwing on a tunic, before dressing himself in his boots, shin-plates, and his chain-mail undercoat. He cursed under his breath as his fingers fumbled at the buckles of his breastplate.

"Here." Came a gentle voice, and female hands covered his own. He sighed, and drooped his shoulders as Bryanne buckled his breastplate on and strapped on his shoulder-guards and wrist-guards. She attached his cloak with a final flourish over his sword sheaths. Lifting the swords from where they rested on the wall, she handed them carefully, hilt first, to him. As he tucked them in their cases over his shoulders, he caught her eye. It seemed desperate. "When you get back… we need to talk." She told him gravely. He nodded, and kissed her forehead. The half-sigh, half-whimper he heard from her made him feel like tearing his armour all back off again. She wore nothing but her pendant.

"When I get back, I will ravish you like never before." He teased, tucking a hair behind her ear and leaving. Solmyr was already saddled, and he mounted quickly, gathering the reins in his hands. "Where to this time, Arthur?" His commander didn't smile.

"South."

"South?" Galahad queried, looking confused. "Directly South?"

"As the hawk flies." Arthur replied, and from above their heads, they heard the clear screech of Tristan's hawk.

"Why? Woads wouldn't have…"

"They're not woads from North of the Wall." Arthur answered, kicking his horse and cantering from the barracks. The journey was a grave one. The air had cleared to a crisp, frosty snap that would have been decadent if the past day's rains hadn't washed the dyes from the leaves, leaving only dull browns and greys. The mud had frozen hard, and the horse's shod hooves clattered over the iced-over puddles and slid on the churned mud.

The village was deserted. Silence lay like a pall over the still huts. No fire burned, no voice called. The hoof beats fell on dead ears, ominous in the quiet. And indeed, there were only dead ears to hear their approach. Corpses lay where they fell. Some had been pecked at by crows, others lay in dark pools of their own blood – frozen. Even the stench of death had been frozen by the frost. Arthur raised a hand, calling a halt.

"Tristan." He beckoned the scout. "Do you hear anything?"

"No." The man replied.

"No… bird calls?"

"None." It was abruptly apparent why the silence seemed so creepy. Not even the whisper of a bird called from the trees. No flutter of wings against branches. Nothing.

"Maybe we're too late." Bors suggested, looking down at one of the bodies. Tristan shook his head, and Arthur voiced the doubt.

"No. They're still here." Lancelot glanced darkly towards the treetops, expecting to see the silhouettes of woad archers perched there. "Prepare yourselves." There was the ring of metal as all weapons were drawn. Tristan notched an arrow in his bow. The horses shifted nervously. The cackle of magpies burst through the treetops, and a pair of the birds disappeared. It made the horses start, but Tristan swiftly loosed an arrow into the trees. It was met with a cry, breaking of twigs and a thud. Silence settled again over the village. Tristan notched another arrow in preparation. The silence was sharply broken by the war cries of dozens of woads, who burst from the trees, from huts and even from a hay wagon. The horses screamed in terror, but held their ground as hell broke over the knights. Lancelot, with incredible dexterity, whipped his blades in circular motions, cutting down the woads at the ran, guiding Solmyr at a canter with his thighs. He could feel the rising bubble of bloodlust, and when Bors shouted the Sarmatian war cry, he joined him, the sound echoing from the ground.

"RRR-OOUU-CCHH!" His shout was cut short as a heavy weight threw him from Solmyr, who reared and whinnied in fear. The woad was on top of him, grappling at his throat, dagger in one hand. Lancelot gritted his teeth, and pushed with all his might, throwing the man from him and jumping to his feet. As he lifted his sword to thrust it at the woad, he felt a sharp pain zip across his forearm. Blood welled in the cut – an arrow narrowly missing him. Pain burned in his hand as he lifted his arm once more, and scarlet rivers gushed down his skin, soaking into the arm of his tunic and across his chain-mail. He hewed the woad's head from its neck, and the body and head thudded to the ground. He turned, bringing his sword upward in a slicing motion to still another woad.

The battle finished abruptly as if had started. Lancelot held the edges of his wound shut with blood-soaked fingers. Dagonet was binding it as Arthur slumped against the wall of a hut. They all looked to their commander, who had never looked so tired after a fight as this one.

"Why were the Southern woads attacking?" Gawain asked. Arthur managed a slow shrug.

"Who knows? They've never been content. But… they're not led by Merlin. Merlin stays North of the Wall as much as he can; he'd never come this far South."

"And it's directly South from us." Galahad muttered, shaking his head in dismay. "They stood no chance. No leader…"

"I never said there was no leader." Arthur snapped, standing and brushing some of the blood from his hands. "Are you okay, Lancelot?"

"It'll heal." Lancelot couldn't hide the wince as Dagonet tied the bandages tight. Arthur smiled.

"Good. I want to get back to the Wall as quickly as possible. If there is unrest both sides of the Wall, there'll be a lot of work for us." The knights mounted, not bothering to clean the dirt away from their faces and armour, only pausing to wipe the blood from their weapons.

The journey back took two days – Lancelot, Gawain and Bors were wounded and needed regular care. Bryanne was waiting for him when he returned, and her face fell at the sight of the bandage, but he refused her sympathies. He sat in his room, watching her with Genna, whose words were now beginning to make sense. She could say:

"Br-an." Whenever she saw her aunt, and: "'Lo Lorla." To greet Lorella. He laughed as Genna gurgled Bryanne's name over and over again, much to the delight of the woad woman.

"Anne." He eventually said, breaking the moment. "You told me before I left that you had something to tell me?" Bryanne bit her lip, standing and cuddling Genna close. The baby clutched her fingers around the chain on her neck, the tourmaline glowing.

"Yes… Lancelot, do you remember what I told a while back? When I told you that I couldn't give Genna the…" She took a deep breath, and he saw the pain in her eyes. "I can't give Genna the life she needs?"

"Yes, but you were just grieving, I –"

"I've thought about it. It's true. Genna needs a family."

"We are her family."

"A proper family, Lancelot." Bryanne said firmly. He knew it was true. They could never have her as their child. Bryanne was too young – too hurt from her past. And he… well, he was a Sarmatian knight. What other reason is there? He fiddled with the edge of his bandages absently. "Lorella told me that she knows a servant from this village South of here…"

"A woad village?" Bryanne blushed.

"Yes."

"Anne…" There was warning in his voice. "I've just come back from a Roman village that was slaughtered. It's too dangerous."

"Not for me… not for a Briton."

"Of course for a Briton!" He cried. "The Romans will kill on first sight. And who's to say this village is safe?"

"It's a secret village… this servant heard about it from a friend who had a sister there. They take in refugees –"

"A secret village, like your village?" Lancelot spat venomously. It was hurtful, and Bryanne looked offended.

"Don't say that." She whispered. He sighed, leaning his forehead in his hand. He couldn't believe what she was suggesting.

"I'd be gone for a few days. There's a family there that will take her in, give her the life she needs." Her voice was pleading. He took a deep breath.

"I'll come with you."

"No. If they see you, they'll kill you before you get within a thousand feet of the village."

"Won't they do the same with you?"

"I'm a Briton." She argued. He had to concede. That was true.

"The Romans will kill you."

"Then teach me to fight." She said, jutting out her angular chin. He snorted.

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly." She answered, her voice low with earnestness.


	16. Fifteen: The Village

"Parry. No. Like this… No." Lancelot sighed with despair.

"I'll never get this." Bryanne moaned, lowering her sword.

"Of course you will. Just… _feel_ it." He raised his sword in his fighting stance. "You did it well enough once." He jibed. Bryanne growled as he attacked. Left, right, left, thrust, up, down, parry, block, turn. Bryanne's sword clattered to the ground, and Lancelot stepped back.

"I can't do it." She snapped, snatching her blade back up.

"Yes. You. Can." Lancelot sighed through gritted teeth. "What helped you the last time?"

"They were Romans?" She curled her lip in sarcastic confusion. He laughed.

"Right. And for what reason were you fighting?"

"For Genna."

"Right. So, think of Genna." He held his sword up. "Again." He instructed. She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath and opened them.

"Ready." He came at her suddenly, dancing forward on one foot. Her sword met his, metal biting metal with a resounding crash. They turned and fought, attacking, defending, back and forth, back and forth. Beads of sweat showed in his forehead and strands of auburn hair stuck to her temples. Back and forth, back and forth, relentlessly trying to find a gap – an opening to get the upper hand. The blades clanged together, with such force it made their hands sting, and forced it into a cross shape between them.

"Not bad." He said, raising his eyebrows. She twitched one back, and he span his sword to break the lock. Darting forward, he reached out a foot and sent her sprawling, the tip of his blade at her throat. She glared up at him.

"No fair." He moved his sword and proffered a hand instead. She took it and he hauled her to her feet.

"Romans don't fight fair." He stepped back, raising his hands into the fighting stance once more. "Again." Her chest was heaving, and she looked tired.

"Not again. Not now. Later." She begged, and he dropped his sword, kissing her. "Thank you." She whispered. Without warning, her blade sang through the air, and he found himself flat on his back, sword pointing down at him. She laughed raucously as he clambered back up.

"Romans won't fall for that, you know."

"Ah, but you will." He harrumphed in reply. "Come on let's eat." She hooked her arm in his…

**Desra** stamped a foot impatiently. Genna was wrapped warmly and hung in a bag-like hammock against Bryanne's chest. Her wool cloak was pulled tightly about her as she stood in the courtyard, her breath coming out in cold clouds, the pendant still about her neck. The knights stood awkwardly, and Lorella looked genuinely heartbroken.

"I'll miss her." She told Bryanne gravely, and Genna chirped:

"Lorla." At the sound of her voice. The Sarmatian mother smiled wanly. Bors leant over and hugged Bryanne.

"I'll miss the little thing too. She's quite a character with the boys." He confided. Bryanne suddenly felt very guilty. One by one, the knights said goodbye, each touching a thumb to Genna's forehead in a gesture of farewell. At last, Lancelot stepped forward, and kissed her, before carefully lifting Genna from her carrier.

"Hey there, little girl." He said, hugging her close. Genna chortled and clutched at the edge of his coat, staring up at him through wide, brown eyes. "You stay safe. And keep Anne safe too."

"Lan-low." Genna murmured as she was handed back to Bryanne. Lancelot felt a painful tug at his heard. He looked at Bryanne.

"You don't –"

"I know. I should. I must." She replied, cupping his cheek in a hand and kissing him carefully before mounting Desra and settling Genna into her carrier. She gathered the reins in her hand, and Desra neighed loudly. Some of the knights managed a soft laugh. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bryanne interrupted. "I'll be safe. I'll avoid the Romans." It was a familiar mantra, and it brought a smile to his lips.

"Just. Come back soon."

"I'll be gone four days." Bryanne reminded him. "No more, no less." He nodded, as she bent down in the saddle and kissed him again. It was a lingering kiss, a promise of more to come… She galloped from the barracks and down the road heading South. The servant had given her careful directions, and it didn't take her long to find the trail that would lead her to the hidden village and Genna's future…

**Arthur** summoned the knights, his face tight, pale and grave, to the hall. They stood at their places, but he didn't ask them to sit.

"The Romans have come across a pocket of some of the rebel woads." He told them, without issuing a greeting. Lancelot shared a look with the other knights. In the two days Bryanne had gone, there had been word of more rebel woads South of the Wall. But, as yet, they had not been called. "The legion who found it has asked for our help. They'll attack tomorrow, and we will be required to secure the area and the passage home."

"When do we leave?" Dagonet asked.

"Within the hour." The knights nodded, and left to prepare. As Lancelot buckled his breastplate, he had an overwhelming sense of something to come. Perhaps foreboding, perhaps anticipation. He shrugged it off, he was not one for superstitions.

They rode directly South, before cutting in an Easterly direction from the road, and soon entered a thick forest with low-hanging trees. The weak Autumnal sun was blocked out and it became gloomy. Arthur led them with confidence, until they came upon a group of Roman guards.

"Who's there?" Called one, holding up his weapon.

"Arthur, from the Great Wall, and his knights." They rode up to the guards, who visibly relaxed.

"Thank God. We thought you were woads."

"Haven't you attacked yet? It's gone noon." Arthur asked, dismounting.

"Of course, but it seemed they were prepared for an attack. Some of them ran whilst others stayed and defended. The battle's still going on now." He led them up a small rise and through a thicket of trees. They heard the battle before they saw the village in a hollow clearing. The feeling of something to come deepened in Lancelot.

_Parry, thrust, turn, block_… The words span into a blur and she forgot everything she had been taught. She heard heavy footsteps behind her, and Bryanne span, swinging her sword up as hard as she could. She cleaved the Roman's face in two. She turned back, ready for her next opponent, with leaden arms and a distorted mind. Block, twist, slice… The blow struck her at her right hip and dragged itself up diagonally across her body to her left breast. Pain seared through her entire body, shuddering and coursing through every vein. She looked down to see the great rent in her tunic fill with blood. She stumbled backwards.

They were walking down the slope towards the battle, weapons drawn, when he saw it. Gawain grabbed Lancelot's arm.

"Lancelot… isn't that…" He needn't finish.

"Desra!" Lancelot cried. The chestnut mare lay on her side, still, tongue lolling lifelessly from her mouth, her eyes glazed over. Sword cuts riddled her cheeks and chest and legs. She was dead. Realisation dawned. _This_ was the village… "NO!" Lancelot screamed, running down the slope, leaping over the fronds of dead bracken.

"LANCELOT!" Arthur shouted, and ran after the Sarmatian knight, heart pounding. The others followed, leaving the Roman guard bewildered. He tore through the huts, searching. He rounded a corner as Bryanne fell backwards, sword slipping from her hand, blood pouring in rivers down her.

"BRYANNE!"

She heard her name called by a familiar voice, but she couldn't believe it. Her mind was clouded, her vision fading. She saw the Roman lift his sword for the last time, but stop, the glinting silver metal suspended above her. _Do it… Just finish it._ She begged silently, feeling the salty taste of blood in her mouth. Her hands felt limp and useless. She couldn't fight if she tried.

"Bryanne… Anne."

"Lancelot?" Her vision cleared. He was there, he was kneeling beside her and the Roman stepped away. He cradled her, each movement rippling agony through her, but she ignored it. He was here… he was with her. "Lancelot, how did they find it?"

"I… I don't know."

"And Genna? Is she..?"

"She's gone. She's safe." He whispered. "Come on, get up, we'll take you home." Bryanne could hear his voice crack.

"No." She whispered.

"Yes."

"No. You can't save me this time."

"I can."

"I can't come with you. Our journeys go different ways."

"That's not true. I can't live without you. I believe!"

"I believe too." She murmured.

"I don't know what do to do if you're not with me."

"When the time comes, you'll know what to do. Remember your father's words." She took a deep breath, trying to keep death at bay for a last moment with him. "I believe in you. I love you, my Sarmatian wolf." She blinked hazily at him.

"Then stay! Don't leave me, don't…" A shudder rippled through her, and her head dropped back on her neck, and he felt her sag in his arms. "NO! Don't! Don't leave me! Don't!" He cried, the hot tears stinging his eyes. "I believe in you…" He sobbed.

"Lancelot." He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Arthur. "Lancelot, she's gone."

"No." He hissed through gritted teeth. "We can save her. Dag… Dagonet…"

"She's gone, Lancelot." The tall man said slowly.

"No. Stop saying that." He felt rough hands lift him from the floor, but his body refused to support his weight. A rough punch in his chest from Bors brought him back to his senses, and he looked down at Bryanne hopelessly. "She can't be gone."

"I'm sorry, Lancelot." Galahad murmured.

"You are _not_ to track the escaped woads." Arthur snarled at one of the Roman centurions. "You are to come back to the Wall with us, now."

"But –"

"NOW!" Arthur roared, silencing all arguments. Dagonet bent and picked up Bryanne, who lay limp in her arms. "Tristan, find a wagon." The commander instructed. "Bors, take Gawain and Galahad. Get Desra. We're taking them both home."...

**The** grave was bare of grass. A bowl with a candle in hissed and spat in the wind. There was no sword in the grave. Just a wooden horse and a tourmaline gem, set in a silver pendant. Lancelot stood alone by the grave.

"My little vixen." He whispered, turned and walked away. A red-stained leaf fell from its branch and twirled lazily down, landing on the grave. Autumn was nearly over, and somewhere, a vixen called for its mate.

* * *

**A quick word before the next two chapters. Thank you for all the reviews - especially SunsetSparrow, Miggryrow and katemary77.**

**And apologies to Mig - It had to be done! I hope did it okay. And thanks for the word "soulful"!**

**In reference** **to the next two chapters - disclaimer because I don't own any of it, and PLEASE read the lyrics, it was a lot of my inspiration when writing this.**

**Enjoy**


	17. TWO YEARS LATER

_The falling leaves drift by my window  
The falling leaves of red and gold  
I see your lips, the summer kisses  
The sunburned hands I used to hold _

Since you went away the days grow long  
And soon I'll hear old winter's song  
But I miss you most of all, my darling  
When autumn leaves start to fall

Since you went away the days grow long  
And soon I'll hear old winter's song  
But I miss you most of all, my darling  
When autumn leaves start to fall

I miss you most of all, my darling  
When autumn leaves start to fall

"Autumn Leaves" -Eva Cassidy

As Lancelot stepped over the rubble that Dagonet had just made of the wall and doors, he heard the faint echo of chanting. He followed Arthur's flickering torch down the spiral steps. As they stepped out into an underground room, Lancelot resisted the urge to gag. There was the stench of dead bodies everywhere. The chanting abruptly halted – it sounded to be a prayer of some kind.

"Who are these defilers of the Lord's temple!" Cried the lank-haired man that blocked his path. The two cowering men Gawain had brought with him muttered excuses, but Lancelot just brushed past the stinking man.

"Out the way." He snapped, but froze in the middle of the room, disbelief etched onto his features as he looked about. He turned to Arthur. "The work of your God." He spat, the smell of death making his eyes sting. "Is this how he answers your prayers?" Arthur had no answer, but simply moved past him, avoiding his piercing gaze.

"See if there's any alive." The commander instructed. Dagonet moved to the grate-covered pits along the back wall, whilst Lancelot cut the chains from the wall. The bars crashed to the ground as one of the men dashed forwards.

"You should never set foot in this holy place!" He cried. Lancelot, boiling over with fury at the sight of the still bodies around him, thrust his sword into the man's stomach. His face contorted in anger, he watched the dead man fall to the floor.

"There was a man of God." The man, who seemed a twisted parody of a priest, pointed to the body.

"Not my God!" The Sarmatian snarled, pointing his finger accusingly. No, never his God.

Dagonet found a boy, but the rest seemed dead, until Arthur knelt by a cage set into the wall in the corner. As Lancelot knelt and looked, icy claws gripped his chest. As he looked into the eyes of his past. He blinked, the moment gone, as he took the torch from Arthur and stood. He led them all back out – the two remaining men, the Sarmatians, Arthur, and the boy, and the girl. A woad girl… he doused the torch in a drift of snow. It had been gently snowing for a little while, and had settled heavily in the time it had taken them to look in the dungeons below. He raised his eyes to the bruised, grey skies. Oh, what had they done…

**He** stared out over the thick pine forest below, feeling the chill of the snow around him, and the movements of Solmyr beneath him.

"It is a beautiful country, is it not?" Her voice was so familiar and yet so foreign. He turned to look at her.

"If you say so." This country held no magic for him. It was a lonely, unfriendly place.

"Then where do you come from that compares?" He didn't reply. "The Black Sea?" Her voice dripped sarcasm, but still he didn't answer. "This is heaven for me." Heaven was such a poisonous word.

"I don't believe in heaven. I've been living in this hell." He leant forward in the saddle, looking at her face, trying to decipher her and her magic. "But if you represent what heaven is, then take me there." Oh, he wished it wasn't her to hear those words. They had always been on the edge of his tongue, half-whispered once. A crack of thunder announced the opening of the skies. A soft pitter-patter rattled on his armour, and he held a hand out to feel the icy droplets. "Rain and snow at once." He glanced to her again, eyebrows quirked in an unreadable expression. "A bad omen." And indeed it was, he decided. A thousand bad omens…

**Her** skin was the pale colour of the moon, her hair as soft as down… Lancelot averted his gaze, trying to suppress the rising feelings he felt stirring from where he had long hidden them. He looked back up, and was startled to catch her eye. Her eyes… hazel eyes… and yet they looked so familiar… He swallowed hard, and turned himself forcefully away. He found a tree and sat against the trunk. He lifted a knee and rested his arm on it, staring into the twilight that filtered through the trees. She scared him. She truly did. She made it flood back, not forgotten, but unwanted, the pain was too deep. He rubbed his face to dispel the memories as soft footfalls announced the arrival of her. He waited for her to speak before he acknowledged her presence.

"What was it like?" He looked up at her. "Your home?" He paused, deep in thought, old words running through his mind.

"We sacrificed goats, drank their blood, danced naked around fires." He chuckled. She waited, looking at him, and he stood to face her on her level. "What I do remember… home… Oceans of grass. From horizon to horizon, further than you can ride… The sky, bigger than you could imagine… No boundaries." There was silence.

"Some people would call that freedom." She replied gently. He looked at her, his heart pounding so loud he was sure she'd hear it. "That's what we fight for. Our land, our people. The right to choose our own destiny." Destiny… whose damned idea had that been? Destiny had laid everything out for him, and just as easily snatched it back. "You see Lancelot, we are much alike you and I." Oh, were they? He had been so alike to _Her_, not to this woman, who seemed to be put here to take Her place. Well, Guinevere never would. "And when you return home, will you take a wife…" Wife! He almost laughed out loud. "… Have sons?" Oh, the rent of pain inside tore further open. Did she intend to kill him through grief?

"I've killed too many sons." He had killed every son he had laid eyes upon, Lancelot told himself with loathing. "What right do I have of my own?" She smirked at him, and he dreaded her next question, yet felt a thrill of excited anticipation. Speak to me forever! He wanted to cry, and in the same breath, shout: Never speak to me again!

"No family. No religion. Do you believe in anything at all?" She asked, tilting her head, in the same way She always had.

"I would have left you and the boy there to die." He answered coldly, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. And so he would have… because he cursed the moment he had set eyes upon her… yet he already felt the stirrings of long-forgotten emotions. He spun on his heel and walked away, feeling the woad's eyes following his steps.

"You look a lot like her, you know." Guinevere turned and looked at Galahad who leant against a tree, arms folded nonchalantly.

"A lot like who?"

"The woman he loved." Guinevere looked surprised, and glanced at Lancelot's retreating back.

"He..?"

"Yes. Very much so."

"Who was she?" She asked curiously, approaching the Sarmatian warily.

"A woad. Like yourself." This time she had to swallow down her shock in case she shouted or laughed.

"What… what happened to her?"

"What do you think?" Galahad retorted, already walking away. "She died."

"Killed?" Guinevere enquired weakly. Galahad looked at her over his shoulder and smirked, giving all the answers she needed. She looked back to where Lancelot had disappeared. Now she was beginning to understand him.

Lancelot hid himself at the base of another tree, out of the light of the fires. He heard a branch break, and looked up, to see Arthur following Guinevere away from the camp – two ghosts in the night. He frowned, and looked back down to the palm of his hand, the pad of his thumb rubbing the talisman that lay there.

Arthur stood against Merlin and Guinevere, glaring furiously.

"If you are so determined to leave us to slaughter, why did you save so many?" She spat at him, though her voice carried an edge of kindness. Arthur's breath caught in his throat. The ghost of words spirited themselves in the wind. Someone, once, had asked him nearly the same thing…

**The** stone was cold and hard against his back, but Lancelot could almost feel the heat of the Saxon fires. Below the, a crowd of anxious Romans had gathered. Guinevere stared over the parapet as Arthur took a step back and looked at each of his companions.

"Knights." He announced. Lancelot briefly closed his eyes, knowing what was to come. "My journey with you must end here." They were new words told in a familiar way. He looked at Gawain, whose eyes begged him to change his mind. "May God go with you." He turned and headed back down the steps. With a snort of fury, and an angered glance to Guinevere, Lancelot followed.

"Arthur! This is not Rome's fight. This is not your fight! All these long years we've been together, the trials we've faced, the blood we've shed. What was it all for if not for the reward of freedom, and now, when we're so close, when it's finally within our grasp… Look at me!" He grabbed Arthur's arm and turned him round. "Does it all count for nothing?" He hissed vehemently. His commander looked at him through oddly cold eyes.

"You ask me that. _You_, who know me best of all." He sounded almost disappointed, and brushed past the Sarmatian without another word. Lancelot darted after him.

"Then do not do this. Only certain death awaits you here! Arthur… I beg you, for our friendship's sake, I beg you." He was surprised when his commander snatched his head and snarled:

"You be my friend now and do not dissuade me. Seize the freedom you have earned and live it for the both of us." He took a deep breath. "I cannot follow you, Lancelot. I now know, that all the blood I have shed, all the lives I have taken, have led me to this moment." There was silence between them. Lancelot conceded, saying nothing but looking away. Arthur patted him on his shoulder, and walked away, his hand trailing across his friend's chest. Lancelot wondered if it was the last time he and Arthur would share that sort of moment – of friendship and brotherhood and understanding…

**The** column led slowly away. Away from Arthur, away from Hadrian's Wall. Away from Guinevere and all the history that had haunted Lancelot those past years. Faintly, drums could be heard, growing in volume and intensity until the horses started, whinnying and trampling this way and that. The knights quickly hushed them, and Lancelot brushed the black neck of Solmyr soothingly. He froze, old memories playing themselves. It couldn't be… He looked up, and Bors stared at him. They felt it too. Lorella, up ahead with a wagon and her children saw it. Tristan moved his hawk closer.

"Hey," it looked at him with gold eyes, "you are free." With that, he released it into the air. Lancelot smiled. Now. This was the battle of his choosing, and he knew that it would be his last – whether live or die. The column was halted as the knights retrieved their armour and weapons. As he prepared himself, he thought to Her. Would She be proud of him? He hoped so. She had once told him that he would know what to do when the time came. As a dam had broken, it flooded into him – the cool freshet that had so long been kept at bay. As he mounted Solmyr and took the flag from a servant, he whispered to Her in his head.

_I believe_…

**Lancelot** drew the sword up the man's chest and watched him fall. He glanced over the wall of flames, and saw Guinevere crouched, facing her enemy with a light in her eyes and laughter on her lips. He saw the calm in her opponent's face, the surety of killing in his stance. A familiar tingling, cold sensation ran up his spine. _No, not again._ A voice whispered. _Not this time_. He turned and battled his way through. Solmyr stood calmly where Lancelot had left him, and snickered into his master's bloodied palm. He mounted, and kicked the stallion into a gallop. Roaring with fury, Lancelot jumped the fire, his eyes burning with bloodlust for the man before him. The Saxon wore fur and leather armour, but was strong. Lancelot's hand stung with the force of the blow that rang down on his sword. Guinevere looked up from the floor where she had fallen, and darted out the way. There was something in the Sarmatians eyes that scared her.

For each thrust and cut, there was a parry and a block. Round and round they went. Lancelot's two swords sang in the air as he spun them this way and that, searching for an opening. He found them, cutting at his legs, arms and stomach, but ever looking for the killing blow, the one that would fell him. His enemy's hand was heavy on the sword, his attacks strong but not as fast or nimble as Lancelot's. The Saxon knocked Lancelot backwards, using a shield, and he stumbled, regaining his footing to ward away two more Saxons who approached him with raised swords. Frustrated at the delay, he roared as he felled the last of the pair easily, and turned to face his opponent again.

Pain seared white-hot through his chest, the breath sucked from his lungs. He looked down to see an arrow shaft embedded through his armour. Looking up, the Saxon had a crossbow in his hand. Anger welled up in him – how dare that man live when he could feel himself die. Screaming with the agony of it, Lancelot threw one of his swords, driving the blade into the Saxon, who registered surprise before dropping to his knees. Lancelot imitated his enemy, and behind him Guinevere felt horror clench her chest. She battled towards the Sarmatian as the knight crawled across the grass towards his enemy. Lifting his arm was a great effort, as blackness began to well in his vision. He pointed the blade at the throat of the bald Saxon, but his enemy grabbed the hilt too, trying to push it away. Lancelot gritted his teeth, stars bursting in front of his eyes. Blood seeped down his chest underneath his armour, his life ebbing away… he plunged his sword into the Saxon's neck, and the body crumpled to the floor. Lancelot managed to shuffle backwards on his knees, before he, too, collapsed. He lay on his side, and he could smell blood and death and ash. With his failing eyes, he thought he saw a woad girl standing before him. Waiting. With the final expulsion of air, Lancelot whispered his final words.


	18. Epilogue

I hope that somewhere, their spirits have found peace. I will never forget them, and legend will tell their tale – and the stories of the other knights that died for freedom. Dagonet and Lancelot and Tristan being just three. As I look at my wife, I realise how much she resembles Bryanne, and I smile at that thought. I hope that there will be something of Bryanne, Lancelot and all my men in the children to come. I promised to live my life in honour of those passed. I pray that I have made them proud, that I have paid my tribute to their bravery and their strength. Life will be different without them. But, I can feel Guinevere take my hand, and I know that I will survive. There is more good in this world than there is bad. Just sometimes, you have to know where to look.

It is a favourite tale of some of the woad's that survived that battle on Badon Hill that they saw Lancelot's final words. Some say he called my name, and yet more claim that he whispered the name of his horse, or his homeland. One woad told me confidently, he had cursed the Saxons to eternal damnation.

But my favourite of them all, the one I like to think were his last words, are more precious than any of the above. With his last breath, Lancelot, Sarmatian Knight of Hadrian's Wall and the Round Table, murmured:

"Anne… Anne… Anne…"

**END**

_Midnights in Winter  
The glowing fire  
Lights up your face in orange and gold.  
I see your sweet smile  
Shine through the darkness  
It's line is etched in my memory. _

So I'd know you by heart.

Mornings in April  
Sharing our secrets  
We'd walk until the morning was gone.  
We were like children  
Laughing for hours  
The joy you gave me lives on and on.

'Cause I know you by heart.

I still hear your voice  
On warm Summer nights  
Whispering like the wind.

You left in Autumn  
The leaves were turning  
I walked down roads of orange and gold.  
I saw your sweet smile  
I heard your laughter  
You're still here beside me every day.

'Cause I know you by heart,  
'Cause I know you by heart.

"I Know You By Heart" -Eva Cassidy.


End file.
